


Just Dive Right in (and Follow My Lead)

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Olympics, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up Together, Jealousy, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 11:00:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14259519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: She stops, turning towards him so suddenly that he balks, backing up. “I can teach you some figure skating moves.”It’s his turn to stare now, barely contained curiosity and anticipation flooding in, all at once. Shaking his head so as to clear it, he crosses his arms over his chest, grounding himself. “What makes you think I want to learn how to do that?”Clarke gives a nonchalant jerk of her shoulders at that, launching into a spin so effortless that it renders him speechless for a full minute. “Who doesn’t?”Clarke Griffin needs a partner. Bellamy Blake just happens to walk into her rink.(Or: Bellamy and Clarke as ice dancing partners, training together through the years to the Olympics.)





	Just Dive Right in (and Follow My Lead)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just gonna put it out there that there are PROBABLY gonna be some ice dancing/figure skating/winter olympics inaccuracies in this fic, mostly because not everything can be googled and I wrote most of this in varying caffeine induced states, so let it slide, y'all.

____________________________

Here’s how it starts: he’s fifteen, and there’s a girl in his rink.

He hears her before he sees her— the glide of blades cutting through ice, the straining notes of a song he can’t seem to identify. It’s strange, considering the rink has been closed for _hours_ now, so he makes sure to put on his best scowl when he rounds the corner. Chasing people off is a part of his job, or so his mom tells him, and there’s always the added incentive of having the space to himself after.

(It’s the biggest incentive, if he’s being entirely honest, so he never really feels too bad about it.)

Then she comes into view, and he finds himself faltering, despite himself.

She’s smaller than he is, all rounded limbs and teeth too big for her face. Awkward in a way that he knows he is, too, gangly and uncoordinated. Her face is pale under the flickering lights, her hair glowing silver, and he can feel his breath catch when she leans forward, one foot lifting off the ground as she executes a perfect spiral.

It’s delicate. _Graceful._ The feeling surging up within him is envy and awe, all at once, snapping him out of his reverie. Mustering the most contemptuous expression he can manage, he stomps forward, making sure to shove the door open with a pointed _bang._

She startles at it, wobbling once before regaining her balance clumsily. He feels bad about it, but only for a split second, his gaze catching on the gleam of her blades, the neat row of laces— _new_ and definitely expensive. He can feel his hand going up to the skates hanging around his neck almost self-consciously, old and fraying and a few sizes too big.

“Rink’s closed,” he bites out, folding his arms across his chest in a valiant attempt at intimidation. “You need to leave.”

The girl, to her credit, doesn’t quail under his glare. He can feel her eyes roving from his face to the skates around his neck, and back up again; the look considering. “You’re not,” she says, frowning. “So why should I?”

“I’m here to _clean up,_ princess,” he spits, fingers curling involuntarily into fists at the admission. “Can’t do that now when you’re doing figure eights around the rink now, can I?”

She blinks, thrown off for a second before recovering just as quickly. “You don’t need skates to clean up,” she states, planting her hands on her hips as her voice gains an accusatory edge. “You just want the rink to yourself.”

It’s his turn to stare now, surprise and grudging admiration warring within him. She’s a lot tougher than she looks, and clearly a lot more perceptive, too. “Fine,” he huffs out, raising his chin a fraction. There are other ways to get her off the ice anyway, and if he’s right about her this time, she’s not the type to back down from a challenge. “How about I race you for it?”

A pause as she appears to process this, a furrow creasing at her brow. “For the rink?”

“For the rink,” Bellamy nods. Then, tapping at the hard plastic of the entrance way, “This can be the starting line. See the ad for Vitagen? That’s the finishing line. Whoever gets there first gets to have the rink, _all_ to themselves. Deal?”

There’s a moment when he thinks the girl might say _no_ , really, but then she’s moving forward, her expression serious in a way that he didn’t think anyone her age would be capable of. “Deal,” she says gravely, extending her hand to shake. He turns away, trying not to think about the feather light bones of her wrist, the way his palm completely envelopes hers. His refusal doesn’t seem to deter her, though, her voice bossy when she declares, “Put on your skates, flyboy.”

The smugness of her expression makes him scowl once more, as does the fact that she picked up on his reference and gave him a nickname of his own. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Oh, so you’d prefer to race in your sneakers? I can’t say I mind the advantage.”

He shoots her a dark look, flopping down onto the nearest bench to yank his skates on. “Yeah, well, you’re going to need it.”

She shrugs, blades cutting across the ice in a perfect twirl. “If you say so.”

 _Showoff._ Shaking his head, he slides onto the rink, rubbing at his hands to warm them. “C’mon. I don’t have all the time in the world, you know.”

“I was waiting for you _,_ ” she mutters, but lines up next to him anyway, feet pointed forward and shoulders back. “Ready.”

“Ready,” he echoes, shivering at the adrenaline and excitement rushing through him, making him dizzy with it. “On your marks, get set—”

“Go!” she yells, kicking off, and there’s split second of indignation at the fact that she _cheated_ before he’s off, too, careening down the ice at a breakneck pace, the finishing line looming ahead—

Just as something slams into his side, sending him completely off balance and tumbling onto the ice.

He lands face-first, and it only occurs to him minutes after that the coppery taste in his mouth is _blood_. Sucking in a deep breath, he flexes arms and legs, checking to see if he can move them. They respond to the movement, and the relief that crashes over him makes his knees go a little weak. Carefully, he pulls himself into a seated position, lips already parting to yell, because what on _earth_ was that—

“I’m sorry,” the girl gasps out, struggling to her feet. He can feel the words dying in his throat at the sight of the sizable bruise against her forehead, already swelling to the size of a golf ball. “I lost control, and my ankle went out beneath me, and,” she stops, her eyes going wide. “You’re bleeding.”

He reaches up, touching at his face. His lip is a mess of blood, but his nose feels fine, at least. “Yeah,” he says, wincing when the motion sends a fresh surge of blood dribbling down his chin. “It’s not as bad as he looks,” he adds hastily, spotting the quiver of her lip, the way she’s wringing at her hands. It’s the way Octavia looks whenever she messes up, and the thought of it softens him more than anything. “I’ll deal with it in a bit.”

“In a bit?” she says, breathless. “You’re bleeding _._ I’ll— there’s a first aid kit somewhere, I think, and some salve—”

“I’m fine _,_ princess.”

“Says the person dripping blood all over the ice.”

“And whose fault is that?”

She stops inches away from him, looking distinctly caught out. “Fine,” she mutters, huffing. “I guess it’s mine, but you don’t have to be _mean_ about it.”

He can’t help it, he snorts. “I kind of do, actually,” he says, and it’s an effort not to tamp down the rush of triumph that surges through him at the slight twitch of her lips; an impeding smile. Somehow, he gets the feeling that they don’t come easy to her, which makes the victory all the more sweet. “I’m Bellamy, by the way.”

“Clarke,” she tells him, offering him a hand. The smile on her face is bright, _blinding,_ and he feels it all the way down to his toes, warm and good and filled with a kind of promise that makes his breath catch, “Clarke Griffin.”

“Clarke,” he repeats, grinning, testing the words out against his tongue. He finds that he likes it, strangely enough. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, Bellamy,” she says, soft, and this time, when she offers her hand, he takes it.

+

(It becomes an unspoken agreement of sorts that they share the rink, after that.

There hasn’t been anymore incidents since the first time, but they’ve come dangerously close to it on several occasions. He goes too fast, sometimes, or she’s spins off course, but they always manage to catch themselves just in time, drifting back to their respective sides with small huffs of laughter and barely concealed grins.

They stop when the automated lights go off, the electricity powering down and leaving him to fumble his way towards the manual switches while she heads to the locker room. He always waits to see her leave before he actually gets started on cleaning; her form receding in view as she eases out of the double doors before disappearing from sight entirely.

 _Last time,_ he tells himself, every time he sees her go. _This is the last time I’ll see her, probably._ Then, tamping down the disappointment stirring in his chest, he reaches for his mop.

He has cleaning to get to, anyway.)

+

Except she’s still there the next week, and the following week, too.

It’s always the same song, the same practiced, even spirals and turns. A part of him is almost curious about it—about _her,_ really— but he manages to restrain himself from asking every time. It’s not like it’s any of his business, and she’s not obliged to tell him anything else.

(Plus, he has her name. That’s already more than he needs to know.)

She has her back to him when he arrives, music blaring so loud that it masks the sound of his arrival entirely. He flops down onto the nearest bench, trying not to stare when she drops into a lunge in a single, fluid motion, sending a wave of ice skittering across the surface.

He can pinpoint the exact moment she spots him, really, because she comes to an abrupt halt at it, nearly tripping over her own feet. “Bellamy?”

“Present,” he says dryly, pretending to busy himself with his skates so she doesn’t seem him smile. “Long day?”

“Funny,” she says, in a perfect encapsulation of his tone. (He mentally adds _sarcasm_ to the list of things she’s been picking up from him, apparently.) Then, squaring at her shoulders, she adds, “I need your help.”

He frowns, giving the end of his lace a firm tug to make sure it stays in place. “And this isn’t help enough?”

“This is a mutually beneficial arrangement,” she says primly, tripping over the term in a way that he knows means it’s new to her. It’d be funny if she didn’t look quite so _serious_ about it. “And I’m— this is important, okay? I need all the help I can get.”

“Sure,” he agrees, sliding onto the ice. “If you say so.”

She picks up on the reference, if the way she’s pouting is any indication. “I’m serious,” she insists, pushing forward and falling into step next to him; matching his pace. Perfect synchrony, despite the way she seems to wobble at every half step. “Have you heard about ice dancing?”

He has, but admitting it feels dangerous, somehow. “No, and I probably don’t want to,” he grumbles, managing a sharp swerve to the right. She follows, faltering only slightly before catching up to him once more.

“It’s a discipline of figure skating,” she continues, pulling ahead so she can look at him. “And it’s what I want to do, okay? I need to convince my dad to let me do it competitively.”

“Still don’t see how this is my problem, princess.”

“It’s not,” she says reluctantly, biting at her lip. “But I just— I need you to teach me how to go as fast as you do without losing my balance half the time.”

It’s surprising enough that he slips just a little, barely managing to regain his balance. “You want me to _teach_ you how to skate?”

“How to skate _fast_ ,” she corrects, without missing a beat. “I saw you, the day we raced. You’re good. _Really_ good, in fact. I thought— I thought I’d see you in the rink the next day during one of the classes, but you never showed.”

“I don’t go here,” he snaps, mostly out of instinct than anything. He regrets it the second the words leave his lips, though, the hurt on her face exacerbating his guilt. “I’m not— we can’t afford it, okay?” he takes a deep breath, soldiers on. “My mom is the janitor here, and I take her shifts whenever she has to work nights at the diner. And also because it’s a good time as any for me to practice. I did hockey when I was a kid.”

She blinks over at him, and he braces himself for a influx of pity; of barely concealed relief and faux sympathy.

“So you _can_ help me,” Clarke says instead, and it’s funny how quickly the weight pressing down on his chest dissolves, filling him with something akin to hope.

“I guess,” he shrugs, for the lack of a better thing to say. “I don’t know, though. Doesn’t seem like a fair bargain to me, if I’m the one doing the teaching.”

She stops, turning towards him so suddenly that he balks, backing up. “I can teach _you_ some figure skating moves.”

It’s his turn to stare now, barely contained curiosity and anticipation flooding in, all at once. Shaking his head so as to clear it, he crosses his arms over his chest, grounding himself. “What makes you think I want to learn how to do that?”

Clarke gives a nonchalant jerk of her shoulders at that, launching into a spin so effortless that it renders him speechless for a full minute. “Who doesn’t?”

It’s stupid. Irrational, really. He has no _reason_ for learning how to figure skate, has no reason for trying out anything to do with ice dancing, has no plausible or possible cause for wanting to, and yet—

“I’ll do it,” he says, licking at his lips. “ _If_ you teach me how to that spiral you were doing just now.”

That pulls a laugh out of her; liliting and delighted beyond anything. “That I can do,” she says, reaching over to tap at his hip, gesturing at him to pull them back. “Lean forward, and hold both arms to your sides. And don’t look down. Not yet, at least.”

“Yes ma’am,” he grins, before doing just that, following her every step of the way.

+

In the months that pass, Bellamy learns more about her than he intends to.

He finds out that she’s been skating since she was ten, for one— the result of too many viewings of the Ice Princess movies as a kid. (That bit of ammunition fuels a countless number of royalty jokes for a _whole_ month at least, which pisses her right off.) She only started skating seriously last year, though, branching off into ice dancing because it’s _clearly_ more suited for her now that she’s thirteen. Her dad is more of a coach than her mom, but they’ve both been helping out ever since she decided to skate on a professional basis. They own major shares of the rink, and are close, personal friends with Thelonious Jaha. She prefers hot tea to cocoa, twizzlers to red vines, wings to nuggets.

She’s a perfectionist, and so is he, and somehow, he can make her laugh when no one else can.

He knows, instinctively, when to switch out Swan Lake for Cotton Eye Joe when she’s feeling tense. The purse of her lips and the nod of her head signals approval, but also improvement. Pouting and a constant stream of complaints means she’s hungry, and a extended hand means that she’s in need of reassurance.

(It’s a form of understanding, really; a kind of connection that he didn’t think he could have with _anybody,_ let alone the strange girl from the ice rink with her nose in the air and a crown in her hair, but here they are.)

Still, he’ll admit that even with his newfound knowledge, he can’t seem to read the expression on her face this time.

“Let me guess,” Bellamy tries, dropping onto the bench across from hers. “The vending machine is fresh out of gummy bears.”

That coaxes a small smile out of her. “Yeah, but I stocked up,” she shrugs, before leaning forward to press a bag in his palm. The weight of her knee against his is comforting, at the very least, and he doesn’t pull away even after she leans back in her seat.

“So, not a gummy bear shortage,” he says gravely, reaching over to flick at her kneecap. She’s not wearing track pants, for once, and they’re red from the cold. “Red vines? Reese pieces? You have to throw me a bone here, princess.”

“Who said I was upset?” she retorts, tilting at her chin. It’s impossible to miss the hint of a smile in her voice, though, and he finds himself relaxing incrementally at it. “Maybe I’m just tired.”

He snorts, shaking at his head. “Like that would stop you from getting on the rink.”

She glances down at her shoes, as if just remembering that she’s in sneakers instead of skates. “Shut up,” Clarke says finally, fingers darting over to poke at his ticklish side. He yelps for good measure, which makes her grin for all of three seconds before the expression fades; sobering just as quickly. “I’m just— I have something to ask you.”

“The last time this happened, I ended up teaching you how to skate faster for _free._ ”

“In exchange for my amazing company,” she corrects absently, lacing her fingers together. Her knuckles are going white with the pressure of it, and he feels his heart sink at the sight of it. Whatever it is, he just knows it’s not going to be good. “It’s, uh. My parents,” she continues, giving a shaky exhale. “They gave their okay on me doing ice dancing competitively.”

Bellamy doesn’t have to think too hard over what this means. It’s clear in the slump of her shoulders, the downward twist of her mouth. Whatever _this_ is— whatever they have— is over. “That’s great,” he says, _hating_ the hollow quality to his own voice. “That’s the point, right?”

“I’m—”

He forces a smile, pushing back onto his feet. There’s something burning down the length of his throat, and a mounting pressure behind his eyelids that tastes like defeat. “Congrats, princess,” he says, looking away. Then, with as much nonchalance he can muster, “I should probably get started on cleaning up, huh?”

“Bellamy—”

“You should go before it gets dark. I don’t think your parents are going to fall for the whole, _sleeping over at Wells’s place_ excuse anymore.”

“They want to pair me up,” she blurts out suddenly, stumbling over the words. “They’re— they’re going to do auditions tomorrow, to see who I can work with.”

He stills, despite himself, feet faltering and blood turning to ice. “What?”

“Tomorrow,” Clarke repeats, taking another deep breath. “At noon. Right at this rink. Open call, so all are welcome.”

He can feel her gaze boring into the side of his cheek, the sound of her held breath releasing when he finally brings himself to look back at her. There’s that familiar flush over her cheeks, the lock of hair that never fails to fall loose from her braid. _Clarke_. A person he’s come to think of as a friend, a _partner,_ even with everything that placed them on two different axises; two different worlds.

“Even janitors who have to earn their living?” he brings himself to say, his voice breaking on the word.

She smiles, and he can’t tell if the glistening of her eyes is from the cold of the rink or from something else entirely. “Especially those,” she says, managing a small laugh as she reaches for him, fingertips grazing at his wrist. “Bellamy, I—”

“I’ have to go,” he interrupts, drawing back before she can get another word in the edgeways. “See you around, princess.”

(For a second, he thinks she might follow, like she does sometimes during their practice sessions. Right at his heels, her laugh bright and wrist bumping against his every so often.

But this time, the only thing that trails him is the sound of the door sliding shut, the _click_ ominous in the quiet.)

+

He holds out for a whole hour before curiosity wins out.

It’s the middle of the day on a Saturday— which normally means babysitting for cash and taking on extra shifts at the diner if his mom can’t— but it’s not too hard to make up some excuse about a school project before slipping out. He won’t be gone long anyway, and it’s not like Octavia can’t entertain herself for a little while.

She’s on the ice by the time he ducks through the door, skating with someone else.

Objectively, it’s a mess. He’s two beats off and going a little too fast, while the grimace on her face is evident even from a distance. To top it all off, he actually _collides_ into her when he attempts a twizzle, which just makes everyone in the vicinity do a collective wince.

It’s basically about ten times worse than Bellamy imagined.

Thankfully, the coach— Clarke’s dad, most likely— has the good sense to call it off after that, sending the contender off with a half-hearted pat at his back. The sight of it loosens the weight of tension against his chest, somewhat, and he tries not to dwell too much on the relief that floods him in that instant.

Most of it is quickly replaced by guilt when he spots her, though.

She has her arms resting on the side rail, slumped over with her chin digging into the curve of her elbow. There’s a purplish bruise forming by the side of her ankle, most likely the result of a clumsy contender, and her knuckles are red and chapped from the cold.

She looks… _tired_. Defeated, more than anything. It’s an expression he didn’t think he’d ever see on her.

In the end, it’s what convinces him to move, really, crossing the room and down the steps towards the rink.

He’s at the entranceway when she finally sees him, her mouth dropping open to gape as he steps forward, toeing off his sneakers carefully. It didn’t occur to him to bring his own skates, so he’ll have to settle for a pair from the lost and found. Forcing down another wave of trepidation, he grabs at the nearest pair, checking to make sure they fit before lacing them up.

Everyone’s outright _staring_ by the time he slides into the rink, his cheeks burning from the attention as he draws closer. There’s no mistaking the judgment in them— travelling from his unruly hair to the holes in his jeans to his borrowed skates. Ordinarily, it’ll be enough to shame him. Or to send him running, in some cases, but.

But he’s not doing it for them. There’s only one person’s opinion he cares about, in this rink, and she’s looking right at him.

 _Hi,_ she mouths, and he has to bite at the inside of his cheek to taper his own from showing.

There’s a few people scattered rink-side, but her dad is the one with the clipboard, so he’s pretty sure he’s the one in charge. Swallowing, he glides up to him, working to keep his voice level. “Uh, hi.”

The look on his face is amused, more than anything, which does ease his nerves a little. “Hi,” he says, smiling. “Jake Griffin. We haven’t met, but I take it you know my daughter?”

“Yes,” he manages, forcing another deep breath through his lungs to steady his nerves. It’s, possibly, the most selfish thing he’s ever done as it is the bravest. “My name is Bellamy Blake,” he tells him, meeting his gaze. “And I’m here to audition to be Clarke’s partner.”

+

(It’s not much of a competition, really, considering the raucous applause that follows after.

The sound is muffled to his own ears, though— Clarke’s laugh overshadowing everything, bright and delighted and a little teary, strangely enough. Then there’s someone grasping at his hand and asking him to fill out forms, and a emphatic nod from Jake Griffin when he mentions coaching and choreography fees, and something about making arrangements with Jaha about a scholarship.

But the best part is when she takes his hand, her voice soft in a way that he knows is only meant for him to hear, her smile wide, “Ready to go again, partner?”

He squeezes back, laughing. “Yeah,” he says, finding that he means every word, “always.”)

+

They’re a year into training when she brings it up.

“This,” Clarke declares, shoving the sheet of paper right up in his face. He gets a glimpse of neon yellow and a blaze of bolded words in all caps before she’s spiriting it away, letting it land against her thigh with a pointed _slap_. “This is what we should be doing.”

He spares a glance over at her, which is pretty difficult considering he’s horizontal and attempting to bench press more than half his own weight. Still, Bellamy tries all the same. “Buying turkey subs at a discounted price?”

That pulls a frustrated noise out of her. “You’re— oh.” She frowns, flipping the sheet over. “Right, I meant to show you the other side.”

“Still thinking about going to a ivy league when you grow up, princess?”

“Shut up,” she mutters, tapping at her foot impatiently. Then, reaching forward to thrust it back in his face once more, “C’mon. Even you have to admit that this is perfect for us, right?”

He releases his grip on the handle, squinting over at the numerous lines of text she’s waving before him. “You do realize that this a competition organized by a competing club, right?”

“Exactly,” she crows, flopping down onto the ground so that their faces are level, hers resting against the bare inch of space on the bench by his head— inches apart, her jaw at his forehead and her ear at his cheek. Parallel and opposite, all at once. “I checked, and we’re totally eligible to compete. Anyone can, as long as you’re a member of the USFSA.”

She’s close enough that he can feel her breath warming his face with each word, her hair tickling at the side of his neck. (It’s not unusual to be this close to her—especially not with what they’re training for—but some days are harder than most when it comes to pretending to be _entirely_ unaffected by her proximity. Fucking hormones.) “Sounds good,” he snorts, rolling his eyes. “Except for the part where your mom doesn’t think we’re ready to compete.”

“We could be training together for the past fifteen years and she’d still think the same.”

“Because she hates me.”

“Because she’s a _mom,_ ” she huffs, her head lolling back towards the ceiling. “I told you, she likes you fine.”

He mimics her posture, sliding his gaze back up to the blinding lights, the motivational banners hanging overhead. “As much as she can like the rink’s janitor, I suppose.”

“We’re not throwing you a pity party,” she scowls, flicking at his forehead. It’s not like there’s any space on the bench to dodge it, so he just takes it, scowling. “Especially not after you nailed all your spins today. My left buttcheek is still numb from hitting the ice every time.”

His cheeks warm at the praise, and he has to fight the urge to squirm at it. “Shut up. You’re having a bad week, that’s all.”

“Well, it’s starting to feel a lot like a permanent thing,” she snaps, the suddenness of it startling him enough that he jerks. “Sorry,” she says quickly, regret shading her features. “I’m just— I don’t know. Frustrated, I guess.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

She turns to look at him, her expression unreadable. “If you say so.”

It’s still funny, even a year later, and he finds himself cracking a small smile despite the seriousness of the situation. “Oh, so you want to listen to me now?” Bellamy teases, leaning forward to press his forehead against her jaw. It’s second nature, at this point, for him to match his breath to hers and vice versa. Almost instinctively, he feels himself relax at the routine of it, at the predictability of her careful, drawn-out breaths, the flutter of her lids against his chin. “Who are you and what did you do to the real Clarke Griffin?”

“Stuffed in one of the lockers, along with her wasted potential _,_ ” she mumbles, the tension slowly seeping out of her belying the venom of her words.

“ _Clarke_.”

“I know, I know,” she sighs, the sound small and defeated, and just like that, he feels the rest of his carefully built resistance fall away.

“Fine,” he rasps out, groaning. The bench is hard and unforgiving under him, but he thumps his head back against it once anyway, because why limit himself to _one_ stupid decision a day? “I’ll do it. Just— whatever, I guess.”

The noise she makes is nothing short of a squeal. “You’re _not_ going to regret this,” Clarke beams, sliding out from under the bar and straightening to her feet. “Their rink is only a hour away by bus, and we can amp up our practices, and—”

He follows suit, wincing at the pain reverberating through his calves when he stands. “You did that whole, _poor me_ schtick just to get to me agree, didn’t you?”

She shrugs, batting her eyelids over at him in a way that he knows is meant to be doe-eyed and innocent. “Maybe,” she says, bursting into laughter when he swipes at her, just barely missing her hip. “Hey! You should be focusing on building up your strength, now, so when we do lifts—”

The rest of her sentence trails off into a yelp when he grabs at her waist, hauling her over his shoulder. “Practice’s over,” he points out, holding back on a laugh when she begins to yell, all indignant and grouchy; her voice bouncing off the hallways as he carries her down to the rink and through the doors, back towards home.

+

As expected, it doesn’t take much to convince his mom that his trip down to Mount Weather is a school sanctioned event. There’s some grumbling about needing to hire a babysitter for Octavia, of course, and some complaining over the fact that it’s a school night, but that’s about as much as he has to deal with before boarding the bus.

Clarke’s parents, on the other hand, are a whole different story.

“I forged a field trip slip,” she says in lieu of a greeting, dropping down into the empty seat next to his. “Oh, and I stole a couple of protein bars. How’s your morning going?”

On anyone else, forgery and theft at fourteen would be impossible to pull off, but it’s _Clarke_ and there’s no doubt that she can do anything she puts her mind to. “Could be better,” he quips, snatching at the scrap of paper dangling from her fingertips. There’s a school crest and the Headmaster signature and it’s as good as the real thing, probably. “Jesus, you _made_ this?”

“Wells helped,” she says, grinning. “Or he typed it out and scanned it, I guess. I did the crest and the signature.”

“You got the most law abiding citizen in Arkadia to help you? Impressive.”

She shrugs, slumping back so she can rest her cheek against his shoulder. “I mean, it’s not like he was dying to help out or anything, but it’s highly probable that he hates my school more than he hates rule-breaking.”

It’s impossible to hold back on a snort at that. “Who doesn’t?” Bellamy points out, poking at her temple and making her scowl. Unlike him, Clarke goes to a private all-girls school that requires them to wear uniforms and behave obnoxiously, apparently. “Make anyone cry today?”

 _Just the mean ones_ is her standard response, but she stays silent this time, her teeth snagging at her bottom lip as she appears to mull this over. “Guess not,” she says finally, turning away. Then, clearing her throat, “Hey, you didn’t answer my question about your morning.”

“Uneventful,” he counters, frowning. There’s something off about her expression; from the hitch in her voice to the way she’s pointedly avoiding looking at him. “And don’t change the subject— what do you mean by that?”

“What do you mean by _what_?”

He shoots her the best unimpressed look he can muster, rolling his eyes. “C’mon, Clarke. Are we really going to play this game?”

“It’s not like we have anything else to do,” she mutters, folding her arms across her chest. Still, she relents after a minute, breathing out a sigh against his ear. “It’s just— ugh. I told you about Bree, right?”

“Bree,” he echoes, recognition dawning when she nudges at his ribs impatiently. “Right. The one who tripped you during dodgeball?”

“And the one who told me that I smelled like mayonnaise,” she grumbles, a curtain of hair falling over her face as she shifts, burying her face into his chest. “I don’t know why, it’s not even _that_ insulting.”

“Maybe it’s because she’s lactose intolerant.”

She manages a small huff of a laugh. “Maybe,” she mumbles, fingers reaching over to play a irregular beat against his knee. It’s not unusual for Clarke, knowing her constant need to be in motion, but the fact that she’s still not looking at him is. “Anyway she— I don’t know,” she groans, sitting up suddenly. “It’s just— have you ever kissed anyone?”

It takes him a full second to realize that she’s actually expecting an answer. He doesn’t so much as chokes on his own breath than he does sputter, but it’s loud enough that everyone else turns to stare, at any rate.

“I’m— are you serious?”

The look on her face is half reproachful, half embarrassed. “Yes,” she hisses, slapping at his chest. “It’s— c’mon. I can’t be the only one who hasn’t, right?”

“You’re _fourteen,_ ” he says, running a palm over his face to will away the blush staining his cheeks. “You don’t even have your license yet. Shouldn’t you be worrying about your grades and shit?”

“Neither do you. And besides, you’re only two years older,” she argues, her expression going contemplative as she studies him, her eyes narrowing. “And _you’ve_ kissed someone. Right?”

Bellamy’s kissed several someone's already, if he’s being entirely honest, but he’d rather not tell her that. “Yeah,” he admits, shifting his fingers to rub at the headache rapidly forming by his temples. “But it’s not like it’s life changing, or magical, or whatever. You shouldn’t be rushing into shit just because someone said something about it.”

“Making fun of me for it,” she corrects, blowing a exasperated breath through her lips before easing back into her seat. “It’s stupid, and I know it’s pointless, but I just can’t help worrying, I guess.”

“Well, don’t,” he says lamely, swallowing down the strange lump that seems to have found its way to his throat. “Because it’s going to happen, okay? And it’ll be with someone you like— someone you _really_ like— so it’ll be good. It’ll be great.” He stops, taking a deep breath. His voice is going scratchy, somehow, and it’s easier to look at the space between her brows than at her. “You’ll look back on it and get all misty-eyed, like they do in those cheesy Hallmark movies you like.”

She doesn’t say anything to that, just stares, long enough that he starts to feel a little antsy. Then, with a small smile playing on her lips, “You said the exact same thing to your sister, didn’t you?”

“I’m— shut up,” he scowls, pushing at her shoulder when she begins to laugh. “God, you’re so annoying.”

“So I’ve been told,” she agrees, and he tries not to look _too_ relieved when she rests her head back against his shoulder; her warmth easy and enticing and familiar. “I’m not going to stress you out further, but thanks for listening, I guess.”

“I wasn’t stressed _,_ ” he grumbles, butting at her forehead lightly. “Don’t give yourself _that_ much credit.”

“Sure,” she says, the thrum of his own pulse finally steadying with each word, with the way she relaxes into him. “I believe you, Bellamy.”

+

It’s a disaster right from the get go.

Registration is a nightmare, for one, as is getting into costume in the packed, overcrowded changing rooms. Clarke loses a skate guard in the process, and the sound system is terrible _,_ and there isn’t any room for them to _sit_ , let alone get any practicing done.

So, yeah, Bellamy’s understandably pissed by the time their turn rolls around.

(It’s definitely not the best state to be in, especially considering how their routine is set to the Mary Poppins soundtrack, but it’s not like he can help how he feels.)

“For fuck’s sake,” he grumbles, watching as the couple before them launches into an all too in-sync waltz sequence. “Leave some for the rest of us, at least.”

He doesn’t need to look at her to know that she’s raising her brow over at him. “Well, it’s not like _we_ need it,” Clarke points out, perfectly reasonable. “Besides,” she continues, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “his footwork is shoddy.”

That gets him to crack a smile, despite himself. Somehow, she’s the only one who knows how to do it, really— reading him better than anyone else, and knowing, instinctively, just the right thing to say or do to calm the chaos rattling at his bones. (He’s a better person for it, he thinks. On days when he’s feeling particularly melodramatic, he likes to think that he’s a better person _for_ her.) “He did falter a little on that twizzle.”

“You call _that_ a twizzle? We need to get your eyes checked.”

“ _You_ need to get checked.”

Her lips give a slight twitch at that, holding back on a laugh, and he wonders how it’s possible for him to still feel the same surge of triumph he felt two years ago, really— at the knowledge of being one of the few people to be able to make her laugh. “You’re one to talk, you know. Aren’t you responsible for all of the concussions I’ve had?”

“Just the one,” he rebutts, crossing his arms over his chest. In the distance, the crowd gives a roar of approval, the music drawing to an end. In a matter of minutes, it’ll be him and Clarke making their way out there. In a matter of minutes, they’ll be out there, _performing._ Not just for themselves— like they’ve been, for the past two years— but for others, too. People beyond their bubble, beyond their family and friends. It’s enough to make him feel a little nauseous. “They’re finishing up. C’mon, we have to—”

“Wait,” she interrupts, grabbing onto his wrist. He can feel his muscles go slack at it, giving in to her touch reflexively. “I have something to say.”

He stops, turning to look at her. There’s no panic in her eyes, or tension in her form, and it’s surprising as it is a relief. “What,” he laughs, reaching over to nudge at her ankle with his. “Are you giving pep talks now, princess? Because I can’t say I mind.”

“You better,” she snorts, the expression fading quickly when the applause starts up, thunderous and echoing. “Look, I know you’re nervous, okay? And upset. And I thought I would be, too, but I’m not.”

He blinks, confusion setting in. “Uh—”

“I’m not,” she continues, giving a shaky laugh. “Because _you’re_ here. You’re here, with me.” He can feel the weight of her fist against his chest at that, fingers uncurling as she splays them out, right over his pulse. “All my life, I’ve always felt alone, somehow. Been alone. But then I met you, and I skated with you, and it’s just— it hit me, you know? That we’re in this together, now. That no matter what, win or lose, I won’t be alone. I’ll be with you.”

(It’s not anything new, not anything he hasn’t thought of himself in the dead of the night and in the safety of his blankets— but it’s _different,_ with her saying it out loud. _Real_. All his life, his relationships have always felt precarious, somehow. One step away from tipping and shattering into fucking pieces, if he wasn’t careful with them, if he didn’t give everything he had to make it work.

But here she is, telling him that he means as much to her as she does to him. Just like that.)

It’s impossible to say anything to that with the lump in his throat, though, so the best he manages is a nod. Then, extending a hand out, he asks, “Together?”

Her answer is clear in her responding smile. “Together,” she tells him, taking it as they walk out into the open, into the blinding lights of the rink.

+

It takes a while for them to announce the results, and even longer for it to sink in, after.

“Second place,” Clarke says, clearly still in a state of disbelief. “ _Second_ place. That’s just— I can’t believe they’d give first place to those jokes _._ You saw their routine, right? Because she totally fumbled during their short dance! And a John Legend song? Like that’s so _original._ This is just some fraudulent _bullshit_ —”

“You do realize that the first prize is a gift certificate to Waffle House and a cheap medal, right?”

The glare she shoots him is razor-sharp. “It’s not about the money, it’s about the _principle_ of the thing,” she says primly, planting her hands on her hips. “Anyone with eyes could see that we killed it, okay? I mean, did anyone else even get a standing ovation? I don’t think so.”

Teasing her when she’s mad is probably not one of his best decisions, but Bellamy’s never been all that great at self preservation anyway. (And besides, it’s not like he can help it. She’s cute when she’s mad, a factoid that he’ll only divulge to her when he’s on his deathbed, most likely.) “Maybe it happened when we weren’t paying attention,” he says, mock-contemplative. “It was _really_ coordinated, so I’m thinking the crowd had some experience—”

She silences him with a flick to his forehead, still scowling. “How are you so unaffected by this?”

“Me?” he laughs, jamming his hands into the pockets of his jacket. They’re heading back to the bus station, and the weather has gone cold with night descending upon them. “Who was the one who gave the whole spiel about it not mattering as long as we’re together?”

She does look a little chagrined by that, and he has to bite back the urge to burst into laughter at the expression on her face. “I mean, yeah,” she mutters, huffing. “But I still thought we’d win.”

He can’t help his snort this time, the sound escaping in a puff of breath before them. “Sure,” he says, cocking his brow. “It’s totally out of left field for them to have given first prize to one of _their_ own teams, in _their_ rink. A small, homegrown effort—”

“Okay, I get it,” she interrupts, bumping her elbow against his. Then, at his pointed look, adds, “I do, okay? It’s just— I don’t know. Disappointing, I guess. I thought we had it in the bag for sure.”

A large part of her disappointment, Bellamy suspects, has to do with not being able to shove a gold medal in her mom’s face, but he doesn’t bring it up. Besides, it’s hard not to feel a little sorry for her— for _them_ — when she’s looking like that, all crestfallen and exhausted with strands of hair falling loose from her immaculate bun.

“Hey,” he says, slinging an arm over her shoulders. “At least we have two gift certificates to iHop, right? I’ll even pay extra and get you a black and white milkshake.”

Her lips give a slight quirk at that. “You’re just doing that because you want one.”

“Me? I don’t even like milkshakes.”

“You drank all of mine the last time.”

“Yeah, but just to rile you up.” He smirks, reaching over to muss at her hair. Normally, this would prompt a indignant squawk on her part, but she barely manages a disapproving noise this time. “So, how about it?” he tries, poking at her ribs. “Pancakes and milkshakes?”

She sighs, running a hand over her face. “I think I’ll pass,” Clarke says finally, fidgeting with the tassels of the scarf around her neck. “I could use some sleep, and maybe a bubble bath? Glass gave me these really nice bath salts a week back, so I might as well put them to good use. ”

The false brightness to her voice that stings worse than any silver medal could, really. Or, well, in their case, that and a gift certificate to iHop. “Clarke.”

“No, seriously!” she says, sliding out of his hold. “My dad has a box of Godiva’s in the fridge too, so I can make a whole spectacle out of it. And I need to get started on this assignment for art class, anyway, so I can bring my canvases in—”

“ _Clarke_ ,” he says, his voice cracking on the word. “Just stop, okay?”

She lurches to a halt, brows drawing together as she glances up at him. “Why?”

“Because,” he says, drawing in a long, shaky breath. She’s still tiny as of now, barely up to his shoulder (though there’s no doubt that she’ll catch up eventually) and he has to bend slightly to meet her eyes. “I think I know how to cheer you up. If— if you’d let me.”

He can practically feel her confusion giving way to awareness with each passing second, her gaze flickering over to his lips, and it shouldn’t be _him_ who’s nervous, shouldn’t be _his_ pulse that is beating so loud, but—

“Okay,” she says decisively, fingers locking instinctively against the nape of his neck and pulling him closer. “Now?”

“Only if you’re _sure,_ ” he says hastily, tripping over the words. “It’s not going to be that Hallmark version, kiss to remember bullshit, but if—”

Clarke kisses him before he can finish, her lips warm and firm on his, _sweet_ in a way that he’s never felt before. He can feel his eyes fluttering shut instinctively, savoring it, pressing back with equal pressure.

Then before he knows it, she’s pulling away, cheeks flushed and staggering slightly on her tiptoes. “Oh.”

He stares, dizzy and lightheaded and stupid, stupid, _stupid_ with wanting. He can still feel her hands in his hair, her touch phantom light as she slides her hands away, dropping them to her sides instead. Licking his lips, he swallows, rasps out, “Okay?”

“Good,” she says, the tail end of it dissolving into a laugh as she studies his face, breaking out into a delighted grin. “That was _fun._ ”

“Kissing generally is,” he manages, clearing his throat. “With, uh. People you like, at least. Or, you know, regard as close, personal friends. The distinction is there.”

She doesn’t appear to hear him if the way she’s skipping off is any indication, head high and smile so big he’s pretty sure they’ll be able to see it on the moon. “I’m starved,” Clarke announces suddenly, pivoting on her heel to face him; smile mischievous and eyes bright. “Shall we go get pancakes?”

He groans, shaking his head. “Oh, so _now_ you’re starved.”

“Making out tends to do that to people, I heard.”

A flush rushes up his cheeks at that, making her laugh, and he scowls, swatting at her. “That was hardly making out, Clarke Griffin.”

“I know, you’re not _that_ good of a friend,” she calls out, shrieking when he pulls her hood up over her head and yanks at the strings, leaving her trapped. “Bellamy!”

“Last time I’m doing you any favors,” he ekes out, heaving out a grumpy sigh when she leans into his side, trusting him to guide her with the hood still pulled tight over her eyes. Then, because he’s _weak_ and it’s her, of all people, “iHop?”

“iHop,” she agrees, looping her arm through his as they trudge their way through the snow.

+

(No one’s exactly _pleased_ that they lied, but the medals gets a space in the training room cabinet anyway, and Clarke’s mom enrolls them in more competitions, so there’s that.

“You think we’ll ever throw them out?” he asks, staring down at the flaking silver paint in a sea of gold. They’ve been on somewhat of a winning streak, lately, and it definitely shows with the all-too cramped shelves.

He senses her smile rather than sees it, cheek pressed against his bicep as she reaches out, laying her fingers over the glass. “Nah,” she says, soft. “I don’t know about you, but this one has sentimental value for me.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy murmurs, lining his hand up over hers. It’s their first win, so of course it means something to her. Still, he can’t help but wonder if _that’s_ the only reason for her sentimentality; can’t help but wonder if she looks at it and thinks of snow and entwined fingers and a kiss, like he does. “I think we’re on the same page here, princess.”)

+

He’s in one of his last few sessions of study hall ( _ever_ , with graduation right on the horizon), when Miller sees her.

“Hey,” he says, the frown evident in his voice even without Bellamy having to look up from his book, “isn’t that your better half on skates?”

“Blades,” he corrects, before the words sink in and the implication of it nearly sends him toppling off his chair. “Wait, _what?_ ”

The eyeroll Miller shoots him is impressive in the amount of disdain it manages to convey. “Outside, you dumbass. Unless the girl hovering by the steps is some other blonde in a private school uniform who keeps trying to get a look at you.”

“You say that like it isn’t a remote possibility,” Bellamy mutters, straightening in his seat slightly so he can peer out of the window. Surprisingly enough, Miller is right— it _is_ Clarke pacing by the steps to the library, head down and arms crossed.

(This is definitely worrying, especially considering how this is the first time she’s visited him in school since the beginning of their partnership three years ago. Normally, she’d be in the rink, by now, warming up. There’ll be a burrito for him on the bench, her neatly pressed blazer draped rink side, and she’d greet him with a badly sung rendition of whatever they’re working on, at the moment.)

“Shit,” he swears, grabbing at his pile of books and college applications and shoving it into his pack. “I better go get her. Can you cover for me?”

“Like anyone would care,” Miller snorts, waving him off. “Jesus, just go. What are they going to do, expel you?”

He manages one last dirty look over his shoulder before he’s darting out of the library, easing the doors shut behind him.

She doesn’t see him right away, head still down and pacing by the time he approaches. A part of him is almost tempted to give her a scare, just because, but he holds off in the end. “Clarke?”

The way she seems to brighten almost infinitesimally at that makes his heart thud painfully against his chest. “Hey!” she smiles, hitching her bag higher up against her shoulder. Standard Ark rink issued, with a glittery _Griffin_ painted on with nail polish they found below the bleachers years back. “You’re out early.”

“And _you’re_ supposed to be at the rink,” he counters, raising a questioning brow over at her. “And yet…?”

She deflates at the pointedness of his tone, huffing. “I’m here,” she finishes, crossing her arms over her chest. “I know, I know. Regionals are in a month, and I should be practicing, or working out, but I just— I felt like if I didn’t get out of there, I’d _burst_.”

“I get it. Practice is unbearable without me. You can’t handle a _single_ minute without—”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” she cuts in, jabbing at his bicep. “Me needing a break has nothing to do with you, okay? You can run off to practice if you want. Go lift some weights, or whatever.”

“Sure.” He nods, working to keep his voice level. “That’s why you’re here, right?”

That renders her speechless, if anything, and this time it’s impossible to restrain his laugh. She recovers quickly enough though, a flush working its way over her cheeks as she glares up at him. “Cute.”

“Cuter than your piteous attempt at lying, at least,” he says, grabbing at the lapels of her blazer when she attempts to stomp off, pulling her close. (He’s not sure what makes him bold, really— the knowledge that she picked _him_ to be with, even outside of practice hours, or the petulant purse of her lips that makes her look about all of five years old.) “You were trying to get to me skip _with_ you.”

“You can’t prove anything,” she says hotly, “and besides, don’t you think if I was going to skip, it’d be with someone who _actually_ knows how to have fun—”

“Okay,” he interrupts, shrugging.

A beat as she appears to process this, her brow furrowing. “Okay?”

“As in okay, let’s do it,” Bellamy says, forcing his gaze away from her lips, suddenly so much closer to his own. She smells overwhelmingly of pears and vanilla and that freesia body wash she adores, and it’s _distracting_ , to say the least. “I know how to have fun, you know. Unlike some people.”

“Doubtful,” she sneers, poking her tongue out at him. “I mean, I guess if your idea of fun is going to a museum, or the rink, or mini-golf _,_ then, sure. You know how to have fun.”

“You liked the mini golf,” he reminds her, grinning as he slides his hand under the strap of her bag, heaving it over his own shoulder instead. “C’mon, princess. Your chariot awaits.”

+

As it turns out, the weather is nice enough that Clarke insists on walking instead.

“Besides, it’s not like we’re going far,” she chirps, her voice deliberately nonchalant in a way that he knows means she’s _actually_ curious. “The museum is in walking distance from the school, which also happens to be right next to the bowling alley, and—”

“We’re not going bowling,” Bellamy says, mostly because there’s only so much bad speculation he can handle, and _bowling_ definitely tops the list on that one. “C’mon, princess,” he coaxes, bumping at her hip. “Can’t you just trust me on this?”

The look she shoots him is half exasperation, half excitement. “I do,” she says, spinning on her her heel to face him, still keeping pace flawlessly despite the fact that she’s walking backwards, “but you have to admit: the last time I said I wanted to do something fun, you made me watch a documentary series on ice caps.”

“A documentary that you finished yourself without any prompting by me whatsoever.”

“Only because it was impossible not to get invested,” she says automatically, her lips twisting into a frown when he draws to a careful stop, side-stepping past her fluidly to get to the entrance. “Wait— this is it?”

He can feel himself smiling at the disbelief in her tone; has to bite at the inside of his cheek to keep it from showing. “This is it,” he confirms.

A beat, her brows rising up to her hairline as she appears to take this in. Then, with exaggerated slowness, she says, “You’re telling me that we came from one library, only to go to another?”

“This one has better WiFi,” he quips, ignoring the indignant sound she makes and striding in. A blast of cool air greets him, making him shiver as he weaves through the shelves expertly, her footsteps trailing after his. “Don’t forget to put your phone on silent.”

He thinks she might sputter something in response before she catches up, fingers grasping at his shirt sleeve and giving it a sharp tug. “Look, you know I’m a fan of libraries, okay?” Clarke hisses, gesturing wildly, “but I was thinking we could at least go somewhere where we can, I don’t know,” she pauses, huffing, “talk at a reasonable decibel?”

It’s an effort to keep from just spoiling it for her, then, but he manages somehow. “You can,” he promises, pulling free from her grip so he can slide his hand in hers instead. “Now if you’d just shut up and follow me, you’ll see.”

The small noise she makes is distinctly impatient, but she doesn’t resist when he pulls her along this time, her hand soft and warm in his. “You’re the worst, you know that?” she mutters, tapping a nail against the ridges of his knuckles. It’s not so much annoying as it is familiar, almost _comforting,_ even, and he finds himself having to stifle another smile at it.

“So you say,” he agrees, leading her to the end of the aisle, through a door marked _staff only._ She balks a little at it, but keeps going when he squeezes at her palm, pushing on. “By the way, you brought a sweater, right?”

“I have one in my bag,” she says, frowning. “But what does that have to do with—”

The words trail off when he pushes the door open, revealing an open expanse of sky and buildings rising in the distance. It’s not much— just a rooftop, with rusting lawn chairs and a broken pool table and rows and rows of planters, lined up along the ledge— but she still makes a small noise of wonder anyway, taking a careful step forward.

“It’s not much,” he says out loud, suddenly and stupidly self-conscious. For the longest time, the rooftop has been his secret and his secret alone, and it feels simultaneously thrilling and terrifying to be sharing it with someone else. With _Clarke_ , in particular _._ “But I like coming here to think, and to read. The librarians like me enough, so they still let me up, even though I’ve stopped working over here.”

She gives a small hum of acknowledgment at that, already distracted by the fern resting against the lawn chair, the crates of books covered with tarp. When she finally looks up at him, her expression is indescribably soft; _tender_ in a way that makes him flush almost immediately.

“It’s yours,” she says, smiling. “This place, that is. It feels like you, you know? I sensed it the second I walked through the door. It’s exactly how I imagined your place would look like, once you moved out.”

He can’t help it, he laughs, because this is exactly the sort of thing that Clarke would say, really. (Beneath her coolheaded logic and her careful practicality is a artist at heart, and he thinks he loves that about her; loves that she sees beauty even in the ordinary.) “Yeah, and it’s yours now, too,” he says, flopping down next to her. The crate at her feet is piled high with books, and he reaches past the stacks of mystery novels and political thrillers to grab at it, sliding it onto her lap. “See? I even prepared entertainment options for you.”

She laughs, leafing through the blank pages carefully. “A _sketchbook?_ ”

“A sketchbook,” he confirms, tapping his fingers approvingly against the spine. “Oh, and a view, of course. I wouldn’t want to deprive you of good subject matter.”

“There’s always you,” she retorts, though the words are more teasing than anything. “I’m,” she stops suddenly, then, shaking her head as if to clear it. “Thank you. I love it.”

“Good,” he says, scooting over to the edge to give her room. “Go crazy, princess. I have books to get through, and things to—”

“I’m curious, though,” she cuts in, inching forward to bump his knee with hers. “You really think this is my idea of fun?”

He doesn’t know what it is about her that gives it away— maybe it’s the incline of her chin, or the hitch in her voice— but there’s no doubt that his answer is important to her, somehow, and that she’s expecting a answer from this. A truthful one.

“Not exactly,” he tells her, easing his head back against the cool metal of the chair. “But you didn’t just need to do something fun, you know? You needed to do something that didn’t stress you out. Something you loved, that didn’t involve going to the rink,” he shrugs, grabbing at the nearest book he can find, mostly so he has something to do with his hands. “And so, here we are.”

He can feel her gaze on his cheek, warm and scrutinizing and weighed down with some emotion that he can’t decipher. He keeps his face resolutely turned away, flipping at the pages of his book.

“Yeah,” she says finally, and he can practically feel his entire body sag in relief when she looks away, cracking open her sketchbook. “That’s a good idea.”

“I keep telling you, I’m full of them.”

“If you say so,” she says, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t mistake the smile in her voice this time. “Now quiet, please. Masterpieces take time.”

“Bossy.”

“Perfectionist,” she says, angling the page away from him. Still, he doesn’t miss the careful arc she makes with her pencil; the beginning of a jaw, and the curve of a neck— and he looks away before he can see more, smiling to himself.

+

(She leaves the sketch tucked in the pages of his battered copy of _The Iliad,_ along with a new chessboard that he keeps carefully wrapped in several layers of bubble wrap and paper.

Objectively, it’s a good piece— she’s captured his half smile, his unruly curls, the freckles spanning his skin. Still, it’s _strange_ , looking at it, looking at how she sees him.

He settles for folding the sketch up in fours, the side with her signature face up, before slipping it into his wallet.)

+

Then, two weeks before regionals, the unthinkable happens.

Clarke gets a _boyfriend._

It’s not so much surprising that she has a boyfriend, really, but more of the fact that her boyfriend is _Finn Collins_. He’s a singles skater, apparently, and he’s always in the rink before their afternoon practice session, which is how Clarke gets to know him.

He’s also the most pretentious, unlikable human being Bellamy’s ever met, but that’s just his opinion.

“Guess what he did today,” he demands, stomping into the garage. Ordinarily, it’d be empty, but Miller and the others (notably, Monty, Jasper and occasionally, Murphy) have taken to converting it into a hangout space, recently. He can’t complain, considering it means he doesn’t have to go far to find them. “Guess what that hemp loving, granola eating asshole did now.”

The resounding groan that goes up can be mostly credited to Miller and Murphy, though he suspects it’s Miller, more than most. “Jesus,” Miller grumbles, dropping his PS3 controller back onto his lap. “This again?”

“This again.” Monty nods, delivering a sharp jab to Jasper’s ribs in a effort to get him to look away from the screen. It works, if his pained yelp is anything to go by. “What did he do now?”

“Hung about after practice to critique my form,” Bellamy snarls, flopping down onto the nearest beanbag. “Goddamn asshole was talking about how my lifts could be smoother, and that my spins could use work, and _has Clarke ever considered going solo_ —”

“He said that to you?” Jasper gapes, which earns him a round of not-so-subtle glares. “As in, I meant, to your _face_?”

“Like he’d have the guts,” he huffs out, sinking back into the comforting warmth of the cushions. It’s exactly what he needs after a long, infuriating day of practice. “No, he just pulled Clarke aside to tell her about it, saying that they’re just _suggestions, of course_ and she shut him down immediately after, but still _._ ”

Even Miller looks a little offended on his behalf at that, which he takes to be a good sign. “Yeah, that’s a fucking dick move,” he says, with the shake his head. “But, you know. It’s expected.”

Whatever it is he’s expecting Miller to say, that’s… definitely not it. “It is?”

“Yeah,” he continues, deceptively casual. “I mean, anyone would feel threatened, looking at you and Clarke. Half the time, I can’t tell if you guys are in love with each other or if it’s just a whole bunch of belligerent sexual tension.”

He doesn’t so much as _choke_ on his own breath than he does sputter, but it’s a close call. “You— I’m— I’m not in _love_ with Clarke.”

The multiple pitying looks he gets in response is enough of an answer for him, but he tries anyway.

“I’m not _,_ ” Bellamy huffs, folding his arms across his chest defensively. “Jesus. I think I would know if I was in love with Clarke, okay? I’m just— I’m not used to someone else butting into our affairs. We’re— we’re a _team._ It’s been just us for so long that it feels weird, having someone else factor themselves in. I don’t _want_ to factor anyone else in.”

“Sure,” Murphy drawls, head lolling back against the seat rest. “That sounds like something a totally platonic friend would say.”

It’s pointless to pick a fight over this with Murphy, of all people, but he considers it for all of three seconds before giving in. “Whatever,” he mutters, reaching over to swipe at Jasper’s controller. “What are we playing?”

“FIFA,” Miller tells him, the whole drama of Finn and Clarke already forgotten in light of a good game and several beers. (It’s one of his best traits, if Bellamy’s being entirely honest.) “You wanna take Murphy, or Monty?”

“Monty,” he says shortly, ignoring the piteous noise on Jasper’s part in favor of grabbing a soda out of the cooler. He could use a win right now, and sobriety is generally the key to that. Besides, Miller and Murphy are still arguing about who should play midfield, so there’s more than enough time for him to settle in.

He’s contemplating if he should get some chips to go with it when Monty speaks, so quietly that he has to strain to hear him, at first. “You okay?”

A snort escapes before he can help himself, guilt surging up soon after at the genuine concern in Monty’s eyes. “Fine,” he bites out, stopping to take another sip of his soda. “Just— peachy I guess. Or at least, I will be.”

A short pause, Monty’s knee bouncing incessantly against his. “Okay,” he says finally, shrugging. “But just so you know, there’s nothing wrong with being jealous. I think she would be, too, if you got a girlfriend.”

 _I’m not jealous,_ he nearly snaps, the words reflexive, belying the sourness sliding down his throat at the thought of it. Deep down, the rational part of him knows that he is; knows that her being with anyone else would probably incite the same reaction from him because, well.

(He’s in love with her. Hell, he’s _been_ in love with her for the longest time, and the thought of being with someone else— of having what he has with _Clarke_ , with someone else— is unthinkable.)

“I know it’s hard,” Monty continues, apparently oblivious to the humongous revelation he just had all of three seconds ago, “but why not channel your feelings into something productive? Like working out more, or something. Maybe arranging more solo training sessions.”

It’s a valid suggestion, of course, but it’s not what he wants, not what he _needs_ now that they’re just two weeks shy of regionals. Instead, all he can think of is the way Monty said _jealous_ and _channel it into something_ and _productive_ and just like that, he feels it: the spark of an idea, a solution to his problem.

“Yeah,” he says, managing a smile for the first time in days, “that sounds like a great plan. Thanks, Monty.”

+

Clarke beats him to the studio on most days, so he’s definitely expecting her by the time he arrives— sweaty and dishevelled and running on three days of caffeine.

“Hey,” she greets, her expression dimming instantaneously when she spots him. “ _Jesus_ , Bellamy. What happened?”

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, waving her off distractedly. Anya isn’t here yet, which is ideal considering how he wants Clarke to be the first to know. She already has her warm up playlist booted up, the speakers thumping out a solid beat, and he crosses the room towards it to bring up Spotify instead. “Listen, I have to talk to you about something, okay? It’s about our free dance programme.”

She frowns, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “What about it? And does it have to do with you looking like roadkill?”

“Cute,” he snorts, running a palm over his face. Sure, there are dark, bruise-like shadows under his eyes and his hair is a mess and he has stubble from all the shaving he hasn’t been doing, but it’ll be worth it if he gets her on board, really. “Look, I have a crazy idea, okay? And you might _hate_ it, and yell at me, but just— give me a shot, here.”

“Of course,” she says, startling when he draws up to her, close as can be. Her breath is warm on his cheek, and he can feel her shiver when he brushes a hand down her arm, curling his fingers around hers. “What are you doing?”

“New steps,” he murmurs, squeezing at her palm encouragingly as the music starts up, slow and sweet and haunting. “Just go with it, princess.”

And she does, moving instinctively with the music— with _him_ — as he launches into the routine he’s spent hours planning over the last few days; mapping out each step with careful precision, guiding her through it with a hand on her waist, the press of his palm.

_It started out with a kiss_

_How did it end up like this_

_It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss_

She gives a small gasp when he pulls her hips towards his, though, all searing heat and closeness that they’ve never attempted in their other routines. The thought of it sets something alight in his chest, as it does when she winds her arms around his neck, pressing even closer and making his breath come short.

_But that is just the price I pay_

_Destiny is calling me_

_Open up my eager eyes_

_‘Cause I’m Mr Brightside_

The lift goes flawlessly, her eyes fluttering shut as he eases her down, trusting him to hold her steady. The slide of her body against his steals his breath, the music drifting to a close as she leans into him, fingers curling into his hair and lips a hair’s breadth away from his.

It falls quiet as he struggles to compose himself, her proximity distracting with the continuous rise and fall of her chest, the way her gaze flicks to his lips ever so imperceptibly. Cursing silently, he takes a deep breath, steadying himself. Still, his voice comes out as a rasp, wavering and breathless with each word. “What do you think?”

A pause, her expression unreadable before she pulls away, disentangling herself carefully.

“I think,” she says finally, a small smile ticking at the edge of her lips— conspiratorial and sly and all _Clarke_ , his own grin sliding in place almost reflexively in response, “we need to inform Anya of our new routine.”

+

 **Figure Skate Daily** @figureskatedaily 1h ago

REGIONALS RESULTS | OVERALL FIRST PLACE WINNERS: @harperMC for singles, @lunalaluna and @lincwood for pairs, and @blakebell and @cgriff for dance! Congrats to all parties and see you guys @ sectionals!

 **@funfone:**!! FINN COLLINS WAS ROBBED

 **@seanlucra:** team usa!!!!

 **@carreybear:** @seanlucra wtf u dumbass

 **@bitingfish:** blake and griffin were the BEST, DID Y’ALL SEE THAT CHEMISTRY? Phew im soaked

 **@chromered:** @bitingfish I know?? Team #bellarke anyone???

 **@jjordan:** @blakebell @princesslarke CRUSHED IT OH MY GOD THOSE ARE /MY/ FRIENDS #bellarke #yesimjumpingonthebandwagon

+

Their performance— and first place win— at regionals garners them a surprising amount of attention and, strangely enough, actual _fans._

“Fans that aren’t just Jasper,” Clarke adds, hitching herself up onto his desk. They’ve just arrived at their hotel that they’re staying in for the duration of sectionals, so of course she’s going to make herself at home in his room instead of staying in hers. “Did you see? We have our own hashtag.”

He does, in fact, know this considering the string of screenshots and reaction videos Octavia sent him just this morning (all of them captioned: _even THEY see it u fucking dumbass_ which is… embarrassing and somehow supportive in equal measure). “I don’t know what that is and I’m not sure I want to know,” he responds, heaving his suitcase onto its side and fumbling with the lock. “And besides, your dad told us to stay off social media for a reason, you know.”

That pulls a unimpressed snort from her. “Yeah, because he doesn’t want me seeing people alternating between fat-shaming me and or making creepy comments,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “As if I didn’t hear any of those since I started competing.”

The statement in itself already sends him reeling, as does the nonchalance in her voice. “What the _fuck,_ Clarke,” he bites out, turning to face her. “And you didn’t think that I should know about any of this?”

“You’re hardly ever _on_ Twitter,” she protests, though if the way her gaze slides away from him is any indication, she does feel bad about keeping it from him. “And it’s just not a big deal, okay? I’ve gotten good at ignoring them completely.”

Bellamy groans, rubbing at his temples. The pressure of his fingertips against skin calms him slightly, dousing the mingling fury and disbelief rising in his throat. “Clarke,” he manages through gritted teeth, “next time this happens, tell me. Okay?”

“If you say so.”

He catches at her ankle, wrapping his fingers against bone. She goes still at it, surprise evident in her sharp intake of breath. “Clarke.”

A small pause, her sigh loud in the quiet before she relents, nodding. “Fine,” Clarke murmurs, finally looking over at him. “But I don’t want you worrying about it, okay? Besides,” she says, her lips lifting a fraction, “there’s nothing like that in the bellarke tag. Just a lot of yelling about how cute we are, so far.”

“Sure,” he says, trying to tamp down the involuntary spike to his pulse with each word. Then, because he can’t help himself, “Better not let loverboy see that, then.”

She frowns, the set of her shoulders going rigid; tensing in a fraction of a millisecond. “What does that mean?”

“What,” he snorts, rolling his eyes. “C’mon, princess. Let’s not give him a reason to get all huffy and jealous again like he did during our victory party.”

“He wasn’t _jealous_.”

“Oh, so you call standing around, pouting _,_ and or basically being all over you in front of your parents normal?”

She jerks free from his grip, so suddenly that he nearly falls over at it. “He wasn’t,” she insists, her cheeks going pink. “He knows that we’re— partners. _Just_ partners.”

“What, so we’re not even friends now?” he demands, throwing his hands up frustratedly. “ _Just_ partners,” he imitates in his best approximation of her voice, high and mocking. “Jesus fucking Christ. What is he going to take offense at next? Us being in the same room together? Us skating in the _same_ rink?”

“I didn’t mean it like that and you know it,” she says, getting to her feet shakily. “I know Finn. He isn’t like anything you’re making him out to be, okay?”

The anger from before is back full force now, stealing his breath and choking on the fumes. “Of course,” he snaps, turning back to his suitcase and yanking the lock off, sending it clattering against the desk. “That’s why he couldn’t even force a _fucking_ smile for you all throughout the night, too busy licking his wounds and brooding about his own loss—”

“Anyone would be upset if they lost!”

“Yeah, but so much so they couldn’t be happy for their _own_ girlfriend?” he says, barking out a laugh. “Real goddamn rich, princess. Real fucking mature of him.”

The noise she makes is somehow wounded yet condescending, all at once. “Like how you’re acting, right now?”

He glares down at the pile of clothes in his suitcase, now slithering free from their neat sections and lying forlornly over his other belongings. “Whatever you say, your highness,” he says snidely, throwing her the most infuriating smirk he can summon. “Say, it’s been fifteen minutes. Shouldn’t you be calling your boyfriend with a update now? Reassuring him that we didn’t screw in a hallway in the minutes you’ve been gone?”

“Fuck you,” she snarls, and he keeps his head down to keep from seeing the tears he knows to be welling in her eyes— a reflex that rises every time she gets mad, something he’s teased her about mercilessly over the years. “And you know what? You better get this out of your fucking system before tomorrow, because I’m _not_ losing sectionals because of your goddamn _petty_ ass!”

“The only time that’s happening is if your boyfriend decides to drive all the way up here to _hover_ our fucking shoulders during our number,” he spits out, forcing back a grimace when she shoves past him, stomping towards the door. “Oh hey, why not you just get him to skate with you instead? Solves all our fucking problems, doesn’t it? I mean, as long as you can get over his big fucking _head_ impeding your view half the time—”

She flips him off, the slam of the door in his face so loud that he flinches at the impact— the wood shuddering for several long minutes after until he relents, pressing his forehead against the cool surface, eventually steadying under his touch.

+

His anger dissipates sometime around dinner, when he finds himself scouring the overcrowded dining hall looking for her.

(She’s not there, naturally, but she’s not at the gym or the pool either, which worries him slightly. Clarke’s always been the type to deal with her emotions by throwing herself into her work, so he’s fully expecting her to be lifting a unholy amount of weights, or scaring off everyone with her aggressive breastroke. The thought of her just sitting in her room, moping, is so unlikely that it takes him a full hour to work his way back up to their floor.)

But as it turns out, he’s wrong, because there’s a light on under her door when he emerges from the elevators, the faint sound of music trickling through.

Sighing, he braces himself, raising a fist to knock. “Clarke?”

The silence stretches on, punctuated with the dull _thud_ his head makes when he rests it against the door, groaning. Fuck. He hates, _hates_ fighting with Clarke. He hates not talking to her, or seeing her, and above all, he hates that he upset her. Sure, they bicker a lot, but he can count the number of the times they’ve had a serious fight on a single hand, and they’ve always blown over in a few hours.

 _Not this time_ , his brain supplies, not entirely helpfully. The thought of it makes his stomach churn, twisting him into knots.

“I know you’re in there,” he tries, tapping out a beat with his nail. It’s morse code, something they’ve both picked up in the early days of their friendship. (For a second, he contemplates doing something stupid, something impulsive, something like _I love you;_ but he chickens out, in the end, settling for _I’m sorry_ instead.) “And you have every right to be mad at me, and hate my guts, but if you’d just open the door, I can— I’ll try and make it up to you.”

Still nothing.

He bites back a curse, taking another deep breath. “But if you’re not ready to talk to me, I understand,” he manages, working to keep his voice even. “I’ll be in my room, so—”

The door lurches open then, nearly sending him toppling in the process. He barely manages to grab on to the side of the knob to keep upright; blinding, all-consuming relief sinking in as he steadies himself.

The feeling fades as soon as his gaze lands on her.

“Shit,” Bellamy swears, taking in her red, puffy eyes; the trembling corners of her mouth. Clarke’s not one for prolonged crying, and sure, they had a fight, but he’s pretty sure what they’d been arguing about wouldn’t warrant this much of an reaction from her. “What happened?”

She gives a humorless laugh at that, slumping back to lean against the wall. “Oh, you know,” she says, sniffing. “I took you up on your suggestion and called Finn.”

He eases the door shut behind him, managing to (somehow) reassemble his expression to one of calm neutrality. “And?”

“And,” she pauses, another breathless laugh escaping, “his _girlfriend_ picked up.”

There’s a high possibility that he’s misheard her, but the expression on her face tells him that he definitely did not. “Fuck,” he breathes, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “ _Jesus,_ Clarke. Did you—”

“Her name is Raven,” she barrels on, her voice shaking with each word, “and get this: they’ve been dating for the past _five_ years, Bellamy. They’ve known each other since they were kids _._ They’re goddamn fucking neighbours.”

It’s impossible to say anything to that, really, not when there’s no right thing to say— so he reaches a tentative hand out instead, grasping lightly at her elbow. “Hey,” he soothes, running his hands down her arms, feeling her shuddering breaths evening out with each passing second. “Hey, it’s okay.”

The sob she makes nearly cleaves his fucking heart into two. “I just feel so _stupid,_ ” she mumbles, burying her face into the front of his shirt. The rest of the words come out muffled by fabric, and he pitches forward to hear her better, resting his chin against the top of her head. “Granted, she had no idea either, but _still._ I felt fucking _awful,_ telling her about the both of us—”

“Hey,” he draws back sharply, tilting at her chin so she’s looking at him. “Don’t do that. You know it’s not your damn fault. This isn’t on either of you. _Finn_ is the one who put you both in this position. _He’s_ the two-faced, cheating _scumbag_ —”

The laugh that bursts out of her is entirely unexpected, as is the way she’s grinning up at him. “Nothing,” she says, at his confusion. “It’s just, I feel like I just gave you the perfect excuse to go punch the living daylights out of Finn Collins.”

He arches a brow over at her. “Do you want me to? Because I’ll be more than glad—”

“No!”

“Well, if you’re sure,” he says blithely, shrugging. “Just saying, though: If you want me to do something else, like slash the tyres to his car or T.P. his house, I will definitely consider it. Whatever the hell you want, princess, and that includes—”

The rest of his speech dries up in his throat at the sudden graze of her fingers against his mouth, stunning him into silence.

She swallows, her throat bobbing as she appears to compose herself. There’s no reason for her to be nervous—no reason for _him_ to be, either— but he can feel nerves rolling off her in the quiver of her hands, the tremble of her voice. “You really mean that?”

He stares, resisting the urge to look away first, to cave. She’s looking right back at him, her hands burning hot against his waist, wisps of her hair falling free and tickling at his chin. It feels like a challenge, somehow, a dare and a question all at once.

(One that he’s not sure he _wants_ answered, considering her vulnerable state. Considering his.)

He releases a shaky breath, sliding his hand away from her chin, skimming it down the line of her neck. It’s meant to ease the tension cutting through everything; an effort to put some distance between them both, but the responding shiver he gets in return is just about the furthest thing from that.

“You really mean that?” she murmurs once more, sounding almost unsure. It takes everything in his willpower not to lean closer, then, not to drift closer to feel the rasp of her words against his ear.

“Clarke,” he closes his eyes, getting ahold of himself. “We—”

Then there’s a sudden knock at the door, the noise snapping him out of his reverie and sending both of them springing apart instinctively.

“Clarke?” Abby’s voice filters in, muffled through the layers of wood. “Is everything okay? Finn called. He said he couldn’t get through to you, and it’s urgent.”

He’s pretty sure the pure disbelief on her face is mirrored back in his, her jaw snapping shut as she seems to come to a decision. Turning away with a sigh, she darts forward, pulling open the door to let her mother in.

“Hand me the phone,” she mutters, shooting him one last apologetic look before she’s off, stomping towards the bathroom with her voice pitched low; leaving him standing there with his hands still reaching for her, grasping at air. “Finn? We need to talk.”

+

 **Figure Skate Daily** @figureskatedaily 3h ago

SECTIONALS RESULTS | The results have been tallied! Congrats goes to @blakebell and @cgriff for their first place win in ice dance, @monrowe for singles, and @sterlink + @mbegelee for pairs!

 **@shaygail:** omg all their routines were SICK can’t wait to see them at nationals!!

 **@irishbloom:** #bellarke for the win!!!!

 **@shieldsiri:** @irishbloom omg i KNOW, and lbr here they’ve fucked

 **@croftie:** @irishbloom @shaygail stfu they’re clearly platonic like siblings

 **@shieldsiri:** @croftie sis if i looked at my brother like that there sure is HELL something wrong

+

(It all happens in a blur, after.

He remembers Clarke’s arms going around him to the thunderous applause of the audience; the sound of her excited yelp in his ear at the kiss and cry when the results go up. Then there’s Anya, clapping at his back, a rare smile from Indra, and the _surrealness_ of it all when they hand him his medal, his free hand clasped firmly in Clarke’s.

They did it. They’ve _won,_ and they’re going to Nationals.

“So, how do you wanna celebrate?” he grins, slinging an arm over her shoulders. They’re heading back to their rooms to pack now, but there’ll be a two hour window after that for them to do whatever they want. With everything that has been going on, two _whole_ hours sounds like a goddamn lifetime. “A joyride on the rink’s Zamboni? Stuffing your face with all the gummy bears you can eat? Keying Finn’s car?”

She laughs, nuzzling her face against the jut of his collarbone, all casual affection and _ease_ that makes his pulse thrum. “Definitely not the latter,” she says, making a face. “I was thinking more along the lines of pancakes and milkshakes, actually.”

“Hm. They didn’t include an iHop gift certificate with this medal, though.”

“Clearly an erroneous oversight on their part,” she teases, tugging at the edge of his sleeve. “You know what, though? It’s my treat. I’m going to get you _five_ black and white milkshakes, and—”

They both come to a abrupt halt at the sight of Abby, rounding the corner and heading straight for them. Something’s wrong, if the tense set of her shoulders and the purse of her lips is any indication, but even he’s not expecting it when she draws up to him, laying a hand over his shoulder.

He can feel Clarke tense beside him, hands sliding free from under him and leaving him cold. “Mom?”

She manages a small, half-hearted nod towards her before turning her attention back on him, and he’s pretty sure he feels it, then, even without her having to say it: the cold slide of dread, inching down his back. A weight against his chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Bellamy,” she says— and there’s a moment of clarity where he registers that this is the first time she’s called him that, not _Blake_ or _Bell_ or even _flyboy,_ and it’s what cements it for him, really— whatever it is, it’s going to crush him. “Something’s happened.”)

+

The funeral takes place on a Thursday afternoon, two weeks after he arrives back home.

His aunt does the arrangements for the service— even driving down from Boston to get everything settled— but in the end, it’s Jake and Abby who help with the hospital bills, and the insurance, and the house. Clarke stays with him throughout, running him hot baths and making soup and changing his sheets.

But even with all the help, it’s still overwhelming, and impossible, and _exhausting._

He can’t seem to summon an appetite in the first week, nearly forgets to send Octavia to school on the second, and he’s barely awake for anything at any point after that. His nights are plagued with nightmares— of doctor’s reports and shattering glass and the smell of diesel and rust and gore, leaving him pale and sweaty and shaking, after.

The next time it happens, though, Clarke’s at his side before he can kick off the tangle of sheets by his legs.

“Hey,” she murmurs, her palm warm against his forehead as she pushes back his sweaty curls; the motion soothing and careful and _achingly_ familiar. “ _Hey._ It’s okay, Bell. You’re okay.”

He blinks, shuddering as the image of blood against gravel fades, slowly shuttering over to a familiar room and blue eyes and a girl, sitting before him. “Clarke?”

“Guilty,” she whispers, sliding her hand down to cup at his cheek, instead. He leans into it instinctively, feeling the tension in his muscles drain away at the stroke of her thumb, the heat of her skin. “Was it another nightmare?”

There’s a lump in his throat that makes it impossible to speak, the phantom taste of blood between his teeth closing his throat, but he tries anyway. “Yeah,” he manages, exhaling a shaky laugh. “This one is better, though. No pink elephant stampede thrown in to mix things up.”

It’s a pathetic attempt at humor and she knows it, if the soft noise of disapproval she makes is any indication. “Sure,” she says, her hand shifting to the nape of his neck, rubbing out the rest of the knots deftly. “I’ll admit, though, it’s nice to see that you’ve retained your shitty sense of humor.”

He scoffs, leaning forward to press their foreheads together. Her breaths are slow, even, and he can feel his steadying in response, a unconscious effort to match hers. “You _laugh_ at my shitty sense of humor.”

“Because I’m the only one who gets it,” she says wryly, dropping her hand down to squeeze at his shoulder. It’s teasing, _sweet,_ even, and he feels his eyes fill at it. It’s hard to imagine a world where things can be okay; where things can be remotely close to normal, after everything that has happened— but with Clarke, it feels like it can be, most of the time.

It’s what makes what he’s about to say so hard.

“You know, you shouldn’t be so nice to me, right?” he says, swallowing down the bile rising in his throat. “Not when I can’t— not when I tell you that I won’t be able to do Nationals. Or skate, even. At least not for a while.”

He can feel her eyes flutter shut at it, her lashes grazing at the curve of his cheek. “I know.”

“You know,” he echoes dully, drawing back. She’s looking at him, now, all determination and defiance and _heat_ , and distantly, he thinks he feels a twinge at it— pride and affection and love, most of all, for the stubborn girl he loves. “No, you don’t, Clarke. I’ll be busy fighting for custody for Octavia, and working four goddamn jobs to make ends meet but you— you don’t have to do any of that. You still have your shot. You can still _win_ this, as long as you drop the deadweight, and get another partner.” The words are razor blades against his tongue, scraping him raw with every word, but he keeps going anyway. “And if anyone deserves it— if anyone deserves this win— it’s you. So, do it. Find someone else. Find someone else, and _win_ this. For the both of us.”

“For us?” she laughs, the sound incredulous more than anything. “Jesus, Bellamy. You don’t get it, do you?” She shakes her head, then, hand rising up to cup his face once more. Holding him steady, keeping him upright, as she always does. “I don’t _want_ to win. Not if you’re not the one who’s going to by my side, doing it _with_ me.”

“Clarke—”

“No,” she says firmly, the look in her eyes so fierce that it silences him immediately. “Don’t even _bother_ to try and change my mind, Bellamy Blake. I know what I want, and winning with you is _it_.” Her eyes are glistening, now, though he can’t make out if it’s because of unshed tears or the way the light hits her. “If it isn’t with you,” she says, her voice growing steadier with each word; quiet with conviction, “then I don’t want it.”

(And Bellamy’s not sure how everything she just said can be his worst nightmare and everything he’s ever wanted, all at once, but here they are. A laugh escapes, shaky and lingering, and he thinks he feels her smile when he ducks at his head, closing his eyes.)

“So, what?” he asks thickly, closing the distance between them once more; nose to nose and her breath fanning against his jaw, the proximity calming. “You’re just going to practice alone in the rink everyday until I get back on my feet?”

“Course not,” she says primly, flicking at his chin. “I’m going to be practicing with sandbags, in the rink. And maybe I’ll teach a junior class or two, with my dad. It’s good to have options.”

“For— and bear in mind, I’m just ballparking it here— two _whole_ years?”

She shrugs, reaching over to brush a lock of hair away from his eyes absently. “Just in time for the Winter Olympics, then,” she says brightly. “You think Finn would have derailed his entire career, by then? Because my money’s on August, this year.”

“October,” he tells her, nodding. “He’ll ride the high of us dropping out for at least a few months, then attempt to restart his career by doing pairs as a last ditch effort.”

“Wow, you really thought about this.”

“It’s all I can think about,” Bellamy snorts, leaning back on his haunches to look at her. Her hair is up in a messy bun, wisps escaping to frame her face, and the shadows under her eyes are prominent in the half-light. The guilt that rises up within him at the sight of it is instantaneous. “What are you still doing here, by the way?” he frowns, folding his arms across his chest. “Why aren’t you home? Resting?”

Another shrug, though he can’t help but notice the way she seems to tense slightly at the question. “I don’t know,” Clarke says finally, lifting her gaze to meet his. “It’s just— I thought about how if I was in your position, I wouldn’t want to be alone.” She huffs out a laugh, dipping her head to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But if you want to be alone, I—”

“I don’t,” he murmurs, before he can change his mind. Before he can tell himself that it’s a bad idea, that it’d be selfish to indulge in whatever it is he feels, especially considering the circumstances. “Would you just,” he swallows, gathering his courage, “can you stay?”

There’s no mistaking the way she relaxes at that. “Yeah,” she says quietly, easing into his side as he lies back down; her cheek to his chest and legs tangling. “Of course, Bell.”

“Okay,” he says, his eyes already drifting shut at the promise in her words, the curl of her arm over his torso, “g’night, Clarke.”

(He thinks she might say something back, maybe _goodnight,_ too, or _love you_ but he’s asleep before he can puzzle it out, the world fading to black.)

+

Adapting to his new schedule— of work, and Octavia and work, all over again— is just about what he expects: tiring and thankless and _boring._

Adapting to his new schedule of not seeing Clarke constantly is even worse, though.

“You would think that I’d miss skating more,” he grumbles, heaving another boxful of files up into his arms. He and Miller have been at it for the better part of an hour, sorting through the archives and files at the law practice Monty’s mom owns. It’s dull, but at least the job pays well. “Instead of, you know, daydreaming about the goddamn hot dogs they sell at the rink’s snack bar, but here we are.”

That earns him a halfhearted shrug on Miller’s part. “They are pretty fucking good hot dogs,” he admits, leafing through their latest stack before separating them into neat piles. “Except, you know. The appeal for you probably lies in eating them _with_ Clarke more than anything.”

(It’s just like Miller to poke at him about this, but for once, he finds that he can’t seem to summon a retort for it. It’s true _,_ at any rate. He’s always known that he loves skating; that he loves the feeling of being on ice— but it’s nothing compared to what it’s like when he’s on the ice _with_ Clarke, really. She’s the one who makes it, for him; the reason behind why it’s _become_ his life.

Well, until now, that is.)

Clearing his throat, he forces the thought away, glancing over at the clock overhead. “Shit,” he swears, dropping the box back onto the nearest surface. It lands with a unsatisfying _thunk,_ making Miller squawk. “I have to go.”

“Go where?”

“I was supposed to be picking up Octavia from school fifteen minutes ago,” he explains, grabbing at the crumpled heap that makes up his jacket and keys. “Tell Mrs. Green that I had to go, okay?”

“Pretty sure she’ll figure it out when she finds one less employee here,” Miller calls out, and the last thing he sees before he’s out of the door is his extended palm, raised to wave. “Drive safe, asshole!”

He snorts, yanking at the door of the truck and clambering in. “I’ll try,” he mutters, twisting the keys in the ignition. It’s his mom’s, and it still smells faintly of cigarettes and the grape gum that she devoured by the pack. The thought of it doesn’t burn through him as much anymore, but he still feels the sting anyway.

It’s not a long drive with the school just fifteen minutes away, but the front lawn is pretty much emptied by the time he arrives. Sure, there’s a few lone stragglers here and there, but he doesn’t see Octavia’s distinctive dark hair; the waterfall of braids she likes to put her hair in ever since they looked up the tutorial together.

Pure, unadulterated _panic_ sets in, clawing at his chest, and he’s already reaching for the door handle when his phone gives a short, angry buzz, startling him back against his seat.

It’s possible that it’s Octavia, or maybe even her teacher, with a damn good explanation for what’s going on. Tamping down the hot burst of fear in his chest, he grabs it, unlocking the screen deftly.

 **Princess of ur HEART:** wru? O has been calling like crazy. She couldn’t get thru so she called me

 **Princess of ur HEART:** it’s ok tho, i’m done with practice so I’ll swing by and pick her up

 **Princess of ur HEART:** straight home after ice cream, i swear

 **Princess of ur HEART:** ok, we’re back at the house. See u l8r

The relief that rushes through him is instantaneous, making his knees go a little weak with it. Octavia’s _fine._ She’s safe, and she’s with Clarke. Choking out a laugh, he fires back a quick affirmative before starting up the truck once more, driving towards home.

He spots Clarke’s practical Toyota when he pulls up into the driveway, Octavia’s face appearing through the curtains before darting away. (She knows, even without him having to say a word, that she’s in deep fucking trouble.) Stifling a laugh, he grabs his things, loping up to the front door.

“Before you say a word,” Octavia starts, the second he’s past the threshold, “I’d like to point out that I only called Clarke after you didn’t pick up for the _fifth_ time.”

“Really?” he says dryly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Strange, because it says right here that you only called twice.”

“The other times didn’t go through.”

“Oh, so you called a cell service tower to check?”

The face that she makes is part sneer, part scowl. “No,” Octavia huffs out, planting her hands on her hips. “But what’s the big deal? I knew you were at work, and that Clarke was free, so I called Clarke. It’s not like I got into a car with a _stranger._ ”

“That’s— not the point,” he says through gritted teeth, running a palm over his face. Embarrassment and exhaustion are setting in now that the initial panic has worn off, and there’s a part of him that wants nothing more than to sink down onto the nearest surface and sleep for the next couple of years. “Clarke’s busy, okay? She has a life. You can’t keep running to her every time I don’t pick up—”

“Not really,” a voice cuts in, amused, and he tries not to let the traitorous thump of excitement in his chest show at the sight of her, leaning against the kitchen counter.

He arches a brow over at her, biting back the wide, _stupid_ smile threatening to break free. “Yes, Ms. Griffin?”

“That’s princess Griffin to you,” she says primly, sliding out from behind the counter and meeting him in the middle. “And what I said was _not really_ in regard to having a life. Don’t have much of one now that my ice dance partner is temporarily out of commission.”

“Hm. And yet you’re still being stubborn about not looking for another partner?”

“Don’t start,” she warns, jabbing at his chest. It’s so _typical_ of her that he cracks under it, bursting into laughter, which she takes with a grumpy eyeroll. “Besides,” Clarke continues, once he’s calmed down, “it’s really not a big deal, okay? There’s nothing I have to do after practice, so. Why shouldn’t I help you out?”

Bellamy groans, resisting the urge to just drop his face down into her shoulder, fitting his head into the crook of her neck and breathing her in. “I don’t know,” he mutters, giving a sullen shrug. “I just feel like you should be with your friends, or your family. Not— you know. Helping me babysit half the time.”

“ _You_ are my friend,” she reminds him, flawlessly mimicking the rise of his brow, the crossed arms. “Are you saying you wouldn’t do the same for Miller, or Murphy?”

“No, but—”

“Look, don’t feel bad,” she interrupts, shooting him a small smile. “If it makes you feel any better, you’ll be doing me a favor, too. My parents have been arguing non-stop these days, and I don’t want to be around for it.” He sucks in a surprised breath at the revelation; is scrambling for the right thing to say just as she speaks once more, softer than before, “I just— I want to help, okay, Bell?”

He sighs, feeling all the counter-arguments and fight draining out of him at the hesitant tilt to her lips, the unsure look in her eyes. God, he’s so _gone_ for her it’s ridiculous. “Okay,” he relents, closing his eyes. “I’ll probably— forget it. Okay. Thanks, Clarke.”

Her answering smile is so _bright_ he has to look away, his heart clenching painfully in his chest. “Good,” she beams, her hand sliding into his. “Now, c’mon. There’s still ice cream in the kitchen if you move fast enough.”

+

It becomes the new normal, after that, for Clarke to be over at the house all the time.

In fact, he’s pretty sure she spends more time at _their_ place than at her own— not that he’s complaining, really. It’s nice to come home to her smile, and her laugh, and the sight of her spooning cereal out of bowl he made during his high school pottery stint. Her books are scattered all over the countertop, her socks in the same wash as his and Octavia’s, and his bar soap has been replaced by body wash that she insists he’ll ‘love’ (which he _does,_ not that he’ll admit to it).

And on the off chance that she stays over— which is, unfortunately, frequently— he lets her have his room.

(“We can just share, you know,” she always points out, amusement quirking at her lips every time she catches him wrangling with his sheets, as if the thought of sharing a bed with the girl he’s been in love with half his life is a _laughing_ matter.

He manages to wave her off every time, spends the entirety of the night on the couch staring up at the ceiling and thinking of the warm weight of her against his side, instead.)

So, yeah, it’s definitely not surprising that she wants to celebrate her eighteenth birthday at their place instead of the country club that her mom’s gunning for.

“It’s just going to be a small get together, I swear.” Clarke promises, eyes widening in what he thinks is supposed to pass as doe-eyed innocence. “A couple of friends, a few beers, and maybe a The Office marathon. What do you think?”

He barely manages to hold back on a snort, pretending to busy himself with brewing a pot of coffee to keep from giving it away. “I don’t know, princess,” he sighs, heaving an exaggerated sigh. “It seems like a lot of trouble, and isn’t there a perfectly good golf course out there—”

“I’d rather stick a chopstick in my eye.”

“— or a vacant parking lot, maybe an abandoned church—”

“ _Bell._ ”

He stops, shooting her a look of mock-puzzlement. Then, with all the seriousness he can muster, “So, the church?”

“Oh, shut up,” she huffs, shoving at his shoulder lightly. “This isn’t a laughing matter, okay? My birthday’s in a week, and I want it to be perfect, and the only way it _can_ be is if I have it here. In a place I love, surrounded by the people I love.” She rubs at her arms, seemingly embarrassed by the confession before barreling on, “And I know you have work, so I was thinking we could start at seven? Monty says he’ll come by earlier to help me with the sound system, though, and Raven says she’ll get sheet cake—”

“Don’t get cake,” he interrupts, his face going up in flames at the questioning tilt of her brow; realization dawning in her gaze as she breaks out into a grin. “Shut up,” he says gruffly, flicking at her elbow. “Just— let me handle it, okay?”

“Okay,” she smiles, and he finds himself having to hide his own when she drops her chin against his shoulder, her hands sliding around his middle when he directs his attention back to the boiling pot. “So, I take it that’s a yes?”

“I suppose,” he mutters, grabbing his mug off the shelf. “I’m sure Octavia will want to be there, but if you’re looking along the lines of a all-night rave, I’ll arrange for someone to take her in for a sleepover—”

“She’s staying until the cake cutting at nine,” she cuts in, tapping out a absent beat against his ribs. “Glass and her mom will come over after that to pick her up, and I’ll be up bright and early the next day to get her.”

“After a night of drinking? Doubtful.”

Her laugh is a soft breath against the side of his neck, making him shiver. “Fine, you’ll get her bright and early the next day,” she amends. “But only because you’re always up by then for your morning jog anyway.”

“A habit that you should pick up on,” Bellamy mutters, trying to ignore the spike of his pulse at the domesticity of it all; at the implication of how well they work together even off the ice. “Anyway, shouldn’t you be at practice?”

“My mom can deal with one more disappointment,” she chirps, and before he can react, she’s planting a kiss against his cheek— soft and warm and smelling faintly of his body wash. (She _showered_ here today. The thought of it is enough to make him choke on his own breath.) “Thanks, Bell. You know you’re the best, right?”

Thankfully, she doesn’t stick around long enough for a response, already darting out of the door with her gym bag over her arm. Distantly, he thinks he hears her call out a goodbye just as the door slams shut, his fingers going up instinctively to graze at the patch of skin her lips touched; a _stupid_ , uncontrollable smile working its way up his face.

+

The party is in full swing by the time he arrives, a whole _hour_ after he’s supposed to get off work.

“I know,” he snaps, mounting the steps up towards the door. From the corner of his eye, he’s pretty sure he can make out a familiar round of faces, all smirking over at him. “I know Clarke’s gonna kill me, okay?”

Murphy hums out some sort of noncommittal noise in response, his attention already back on the brunette hanging off his arm. Monty manages a sympathetic pat to his shoulder, at least, shaking his head cheerfully. “Well, at least you’re prepared.”

“For the wrath of Clarke? Doubtful.”

“It’s you,” Monty shrugs, as if that’s explanation enough. “She’ll understand.”

He can’t quite hold back on his snort at that. “Sure, _that_ sounds plausible,” he says, with as much sarcasm that he can muster. Then, slipping his hand around the knob (pulsing with music, so loud that it makes his teeth rattle), he bites out, “I’ll see you inside.”

Monty must something in return to that, but most of it is lost in the blast of music and cheers that envelope him when he ducks inside. It’s not quite at _rave_ standards just yet, but he definitely spots a few cases of beer and red bulls lying around.

Biting back a grimace, he side steps the group of people energetically yelling at the Wii console to head towards the kitchen, dispensing waves and half hearted _hi’s_ as he goes. Most of his friends are Clarke’s, and vice versa, so it’s a struggle to make his way to the kitchen without any interruptions.

The kitchen is, mercifully, empty by the time he shoulders his way through. Exhaling a sigh of relief, he yanks the freezer open, carefully extricating the cake and candles he’s stored in the cake box marked _Octavia’s Christening._ It’s one of the few things Clarke wouldn’t root through, so it seemed like a safe bet at the time.

He’s scrambling through the drawers for a lighter when someone claps a hand over his eyes, nearly throwing him off balance.

“Guess who?”

He stills under the familiar touch, huffing out a laugh. “Uh, my conscience?”

“Yeah, and he wants to know how you could be so fantastically late to your _best friend’s_ party.”

Her tone is teasing, but there’s no mistaking the hurt in there, too. Gently, he lifts her hands away, curling his fingers around hers as he turns to face her. “I’m sorry,” he starts, rubbing at the chapped skin of her knuckles with his thumb. “I tried to leave as early as I could, but it was one difficult customer after the other, and Cage was just sitting back in his office, doing absolutely _nothing,_ of course—”

“Unsurprising,” she mutters, making a face. “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t leave his office even if the garage caught fire.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“I’d bust you out if anything,” she says, mock-solemn. The expression fades quickly when she spots the box resting on the counter, though, morphing into one of confusion. “Wait, why do you have Octavia’s christening stuff out?”

“Right.” He scoops the box up, making sure to grab the lighter along as well. They have half an hour until nine, which means it’s prime time to set up. “Well, you’ll see. Go back in and enjoy your party, princess.”

She narrows her eyes over at him, comprehension dawning when he darts past her towards the backyard instead. “No way,” she demands, flip flops smacking loudly against wood as she hurries up to him. “You kept my cake in _that_? Oh my god, you sneaky, son of a—”

“You’re nosy!” Bellamy retorts, laying the box down onto the table. It’s free of the numerous pizza boxes and beer cans that are littering the inside of the house, at any rate, so it’s clearly the ideal location for the cake cutting. “And besides, I didn’t trust you not to devour it the second you laid your eyes on it, so.”

That earns him a petulant scowl on her part, her hands going to her hips. “Hey, even if I did, it’s _fine_ because it’s _my_ birthday,” she points out, swinging herself up on the table while he busies himself with distributing the paper plates and cutlery Octavia must have left behind. “It’s my day, so I get to make the rules.”

“And do those rules conveniently include eating cake before everyone else?” he drawls, shooting her a unimpressed look.

She rolls her eyes, catching at his wrist with surprising dexterity when he attempts to slide a set of plates past her. “No. I have a better one.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she confirms, leaning forward on her elbows so they’re face to face, the wind stirring at her hair and tickling at his cheek. “How about this: I get _two_ birthday wishes.”

He raises a brow at her. “Two wishes? Someone’s greedy.”

“My birthday, my rules,” she says, sticking her tongue out at him right as she grabs at the lighter, flicking it on with a _snap_. “Or we can share it, whatever. C’mon, Bell. Close your eyes, and we’ll blow it out at the count of three.”

“I don’t want your pity wish.”

“Just do it, you idiot.”

Suppressing a sigh, he does, easing his eyes shut when he feels her warm breath fanning over his jaw. It’s an effort not to shiver at it, but he tries his best anyway, clenching his teeth with it until the urge passes.

He’s not sure how much time passes with them just like this— face inches away from each other, her breath unconsciously growing to match his— but it feels like hours have passed when he finally opens his eyes, a long exhale escaping.

Clarke’s already looking at him, unwavering and sure in a way that makes his pulse pick up speed. He can feel his breath hitch in his throat at it, instinctive.

“So,” he murmurs, working to keep his voice level, “what did you wish for?”

She gives a shaky laugh, then, her gaze flickering over to his lips. It’s brief, barely there, maybe imagined, _but_ —

“This,” she says, and before he can react, she’s moving, twisting her hands into his hair and _kissing_ him. It’s deep and familiar and _sweet_ , just like the kiss they shared all those years back, and he’s surging back to kiss her harder, sweeping his tongue against hers, and she gives a small giggle when he slides his hand up her back, making her lose her balance and nearly tipping over with it.

He catches her before she can fall, pulling back to look at her. Her eyes are glazed, lips swollen and well-kissed, and she’s—

She’s drunk _._

It hits him in a instant— the sweetness of her breath, the dizziness. The disappointment that sweeps through him is a crushing weight on his chest, the words rolling off his tongue like a stone. “You’re drunk.”

She blinks up at him, confusion shading her features. “I— I had a few ciders, but I’m not— this isn’t—”

He steps away, mostly so she can’t tell that he’s shaking. There’s venom burning at his throat, and pressure pricking at the back of his eyelids, and it’s possible he might burst if he doesn’t get away soon. “It’s fine. What’s a kiss between friends, right princess?”

There’s something akin to anguish on her face, or maybe guilt, and he thinks he sees her lips forming his name before he turns away; ambling back towards the party, towards the crowds of people that he wants between him and Clarke.

+

(She’s up with coffee by the time he gets up for his run the next day.

They have leftover cake for breakfast, washing it down with the remains of Jasper’s cherry coke, and she convinces him to work on the crossword with her until it’s time to go get Octavia. He does it with a pen, which pisses her the hell off, and she swigs down his almond milk straight from the carton, which pisses _him_ off.

They do everything but talk about last night, and what it meant, and it’s a relief as much as it is torture.)

+

The call comes four months after, right as he gets in for work.

“What’s wrong?” Wells asks, the second he hangs up. (It’s about as far as surprising as it gets, with Wells Jaha being the nicest and most attentive person he knows. That, and also because they’re a part of the same office, but still.) “Is it a emergency? Do I need to get Clarke?”

He manages the quick shake of his head at that, which is a remarkable feat considering he’s still fucking _reeling_ from the past five minutes. “No, no,” he gets out, running a palm over his face. “That’s— it was my aunt,” he stops, swallowing hard. “And Octavia’s dad.”

A beat, Wells straightening ever so slightly in his seat. They’re not exactly _friends,_ per se— they’re both more of Clarke’s friends than they are each other’s— but even he knows about the complicated Blake family history. It’s not like he bothers to hide it, or anything. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he snorts, shifting his attention over to his throbbing temples instead, massaging at them. “She tracked him down, if you can believe it. And as it turns out, he didn’t— he never knew he had a daughter.”

There’s really nothing appropriate that Wells can say to that, really, but Bellamy does appreciate him for trying. “That must have been a shock,” he says, mild.

“It is,” he snorts, dropping his hands back down to his sides. It’s getting easier to breathe with each passing minute, though, easier to accept the situation staring him right in the face. “He wants to see her. To get to know her, and be a part of her life, and…” he trails off, a disbelieving laugh escaping. “He wants to help.”

Another pause, this time dragging longer than the last. “As in,” he says finally, his voice rising in question, “financially?”

“Amongst other things.” Bellamy nods, and saying it out loud makes it feel _real,_ somehow, even with every other part of him screaming to exercise caution. Good things never last, when it comes to him. There’s no reason for it to start now. “I mean, we’re doing okay, with my aunt’s cheques and my jobs, but it would— it would really help, I guess. Him being around, and helping out. I don’t know.”

“You spoke to him, right? What do you think?”

He shrugs, resisting the urge to get to his feet so he can pace to his liking. Or to call Clarke, to listen to the low, smooth cadences of her voice, soothing and thrilling in equal measure. She always knows what to say, knows what to do to ease the knot tightening in his chest so hard that he can’t breathe.

(But to tell her would be to give her hope. False ones, maybe, about him being able to return to ice dancing. To have a _life_ that is his own again.)

“He seems alright,” he says, settling for shifting back in his seat until he feels his muscles unfurl and relax. “My aunt is bringing him down next week, so I guess I can decide then. Figure out what do from there.”

The small nod Wells gives in a response to that is surprisingly reassuring. “Sounds like a plan,” he says, and because it’s _Wells_ and he’s not one for beating around the bush, “you gonna tell Clarke?”

His stomach gives a flip at the thought of it, sharp and painful. He wants to. He _should._ Unconsciously, he finds his gaze drifting over to the sheet of glass over by Wells, a birds eye view of the rink beneath them. He’s been helping the Jahas balance their books for the last few months, and sometimes, his and Clarke’s schedules line up.

There’s a unmistakable flash of blonde on the rink, all speed and grace that takes his breath away, even after all this time.

In the end, it’s what makes up his mind for him.

“Yeah,” he tells Wells, rising to his feet. “I am. Right now, in fact,” he says, gesturing towards the glass. “Cover for me?”

“Sure,” he smiles, clapping at his arm when he eases past him towards the door. “And, hey, good luck.”

“I don’t need it!” he calls out, heading down the stairs.

She has her back to him by the time he gets on the rink, in a pair of ill-fitting skates that pinches at his toes with every passing second. Still, it’s not hard to catch up with her, to fall back in the rhythm that has always come to them so easily.

“Hey,” he breathes, twining his fingers between hers, smiling at the small gasp she emits at the sight of him— back on the ice, back by her side, skating in unison, like they always have— “got a second? There’s something I need to tell you.”

+

Clarke’s there when Octavia’s dad (or Marcus _,_ as he tells them to call him) comes down for his visit. She’s there, too, to make up the spare room in his apartment for whenever O wants to stay over, and for the countless awkward brunches and football games and movie nights that they sit through in a attempt to make things better. _Easier._

And eventually, in the coming months, they do.

It’s not perfect, and it’s still a work in progress, somewhat— but it’s a lot easier to breathe when they’re all in it together, really. He quits a few jobs at his aunt’s insistence, skates a few nights with Clarke, takes up a few night classes that Marcus recommends.

It’s almost as if things are back to normal; back to where he had been, years back.

Except for one thing, of course.

“So,” he says, conversational, carding his fingers through her hair. They have the house to themselves for once, with O at school and Marcus at work, which means movie night where they get to enjoy their favorites (arthouse indie films for her, documentaries for him) without mockery. “Did you see Finn’s Facebook announcement?”

He feels her laugh against his chest, then, soft and impossibly fond. “You mean the whole essay about why he’s leaving figure skating?”

“Oh, that’s what it was? Shit. I reported it for spam.”

“You don’t even check your account,” she points out, flicking at his collarbone so suddenly that he yelps with it. “Who sent it to you?”

“Miller,” he mutters, huffing out a exasperated noise at her laugh. “Shut up. He’s just being a good friend, okay?”

“Yeah, and because he’s way more invested in the politics of all this than we are,” Clarke teases, propping herself up with her elbow. (He instantly misses her warmth, has to resist the urge to tug her back down reflexively.) “Did you read all of it?”

“I couldn’t make it past two paragraphs, but I get the gist.”

She gives a small hum of acknowledgement at that, deceptively casual. Still, it’s impossible to miss the way she’s looking at him; alert and careful as she reaches over to hit pause on the remote. “So, are you going to brag about how you predicted this?”

“No,” he says, working to keep his voice as nonchalant as hers. “I just— it got me thinking, I guess. About skating, and the rink, and did you know that they’re getting rid of the hot dog stand by the rink? Wells says that there’s some issues with rent, and—”

Another chiding flick, this time at his shoulder instead, and when she speaks, it sounds like she’s tearing up, just a little, because of course she knows what he’s about to say. “ _Bell_.”

“Seriously, you don’t care about the hot dogs?”

He closes his eyes when he feels her lean forward, pressing their foreheads together. A exact echo of what they used to do, right before getting into the rink. Breathing together, hearts in sync. “Bellamy Blake,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. “I don’t give a _fuck_ about the hot dogs.”

“Fair enough,” he rasps out, taking her hand. Squeezing, once. “Clarke Griffin,” he starts, a small, watery laugh escaping. “Do you think you would be interested in being my partner again?”

Her answer is clear in her smile, in the press of her lips against his cheek, dangerously close to his mouth. “I never stopped, you idiot,” she murmurs, flopping back down to his side, resting her face against his chest. “And hey,” she continues, poking at his side. “Right in time for the Winter Olympics, too.”

He doesn’t need to look at her to know that she’s smiling, and the thought of it brings one to his face, too. “Yeah, and there’s that,” he tells her, sliding his arm back over her shoulders before pressing play once more.

+

 **Figure Skate Daily** @figureskatedaily 6h ago

NEWS | @blakebell and @cgriff are back with a vengeance! Having just swept first place at Nationals, they’re a definite shoo-in for this year’s Winter Olympics. See you guys at Pyeongchang!

 **@heatherven:** look at the MAJOR HEART EYES @blakebell is shooting @cgriff??? Not to be that person but thEY’RE IN LOVE, BITCH

 **@icallie:** wait hasn’t it been confirmed already that they’re going to pyeongchang? Lmao @figureskatedaily get it together

 **@tracye:** #notacouple ;)

 **@troianxbellas:** they literally don’t give each other a iNCH of personal space even when off the ice what is this

 **@shistae:** TEAM USA

+

They’re both groggy and exhausted by the time they land, with Clarke promptly falling asleep on his shoulder upon boarding the bus to Olympic Village. It’s a long ride, according to their guide sitting up front, and he makes sure not to fidget too much throughout the journey.

(Clarke needs the rest, if anything. She’s a restless sleeper, sometimes taking _hours_ just to fall into a uneasy, half state of sleep. His tendency to nod off while standing up pales in comparison, really, and considering how she’s currently drooling on him, he’s willing to bet that it’s a good one.)

Still, she must have some sort of internal Olympic radar or something, because she stirs just as they’re pulling up to the entrance.

“Shit,” she says blearily, rubbing at her eyes. “How long was I out?”

“Not long,” he shrugs, reaching over to brush a strand of hair off her face. “About a hour and a half, maybe? I wasn’t keeping track.”

That pulls a groan out of her, the sound drawn-out and defeated. “A whole _hour?_ Jesus, Bell. Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Maybe _I_ needed the quiet, princess.”

The glare she shoots him is particularly venomous. “Like I’d be a scintillating conversational partner after fifteen hours up in the air,” she mutters, grudgingly taking his hand when he helps her up. “Did you get any shut eye?”

“Sure,” he says, the lie coming easy despite the jet lag and the stiffness of his shoulder. Then, giving her a quick glance over, “Got everything?”

“I think so,” she murmurs, knotting at the scarf around her neck. It’s one of his, a pale blue one his mom had knit him, years back. Clarke must have found it around the house somewhere, and—

“Hang on,” he frowns, putting a hand out to keep her from ducking past him. “Is that my sweater?”

She blinks, gaze flitting down to the oversized grey sweater sliding off her shoulder. “I mean, yeah,” she concedes, folding her arms across her chest. “But I didn’t think you’d mind _._ You have tons of them lying around.”

“That’s not the _point_ ,” he sputters out, trying not to stare at the slight rip in the hem, the tiny _blake_ stitched in red thread over the heart. The sight of her in his clothes is doing terrible, _terrible_ things to his pulse, and possibly his blood pressure. “Don’t you have your own sweaters?”

“Yours are comfy,” she retorts, slipping the sleeves over so they obscure her fingers. “The cut of guys sweaters are always better, okay? Mine are always tight around the chest, or by the arms, and this one smells like you—”

Her jaw snaps shut with a audible _click_ at that, her cheeks going pink, and it’s all he can do to bite back the wide, stupid smile blooming over his face.

“You put on a sweater that smells like me?”

“That’s not the point,” she echoes weakly, planting her hands on her hips firmly. “And I’m pretty sure you haven’t realized, but we’re holding everyone up, okay? So let’s get off this bus, and go check in, and—”

“Don’t change the subject,” he laughs, hurrying after her when she spins on her heel, stomping down the aisle. “Aw, c’mon, princess. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“Ah, so you will admit that you went around smelling my sweaters until you found one that smelled like me?”

She whirls onto him so abruptly then that he startles, backing up instinctively. Her expression is pure defiance, eyes _blazing_ , and for a second, he thinks she might do something crazy, like whip off his sweater and throw it at him or something.

“Okay, so maybe I did _,_ ” she bites out, jabbing a finger against his chest. “But that’s because I was going to a foreign country, fifteen hours away, to participate in a _major_ international sporting event that could decide the course of my life indefinitely. So maybe I wanted to feel _safe,_ okay? Maybe I wanted to have a piece of home with me, whenever I went. Sue me.”

It’s a lot to take in at once, especially with the way she’s glowering up at him, but he finds his thoughts snagging on her words anyway; on _home_ and _safe,_ and—

She thinks of him as her home. She wants him with her, all the time, even when he’s there with her physically, and he makes her feel safe, beyond anything.

It’s everything he’s felt about her, too, and everything he never dared put into words.

Unwittingly, he feels his eyes going hot, and he has to scrub a hand over his face before she notices. She’s still babbling on, thankfully, and in that moment he feels a fierce rush of fondness for her— for the girl he’s grown up with, for the girl he’s loved half his life.

And maybe she’ll never love him the _exact_ same way that he does for her, but it’s enough. It’ll always be enough.

“— have it laundered, and you can have it back bright and early tomorrow—”

“Keep it,” he cuts in, grasping at her shoulder. The cotton feels worn and familiar under his touch, as is her warmth, and he’s not sure if that’s what possesses him to say it, but the words are out of his mouth before he can help himself. “You look better in it anyway.”

He meant it to be teasing, a _joke_ , mostly, but the flush that rushes up her face is instantaneous, her mouth dropping open slightly to gape.

It’s not a expression that he sees on her often. Or ever, if he’s being entirely honest.

Curiosity stirring in his stomach, he leans forward, brushing his hand down her arm. It’s not much, just a barely there touch— but she breaks out in shivers anyway, her eyes going dark for a fraction of a second.

Huh. Well that’s… _interesting,_ to say the least.

“Okay, well,” he grins, stepping away. She follows the movement with her eyes, looking a little dazed, which he can’t help but feel a little smug about. “It’s settled then, princess. Let’s get the show on the road.”

+

It’s not like he intends to flirt with Clarke over the next couple of days, but it’s hard to resist when there are just so many opportunities to act on it.

He tells himself that it’s purely observational, of course, and that it isn’t going to lead anywhere, regardless— but it’s hard to keep a entirely cool head about it when she flirts _back,_ or when he catches her gaze dropping to his lips during practice; one hand to his chest and her breath coming warm against his face.

“Maybe it’s the Olympic air,” Miller muses, his voice wavering in the static travelling down the line. “Isn’t it supposed to be bone fest over there?”

He shrugs, then, remembering Miller can’t see him, “I guess?” he says, wrangling a clean towel over his neck. The gym is mercifully empty, which makes it a good time as any to grumble about the latest situation. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been getting offers, but I just— I can’t think about anything beyond winning for now, you know?”

(And Clarke, obviously. Not that he’s going to tell Miller that.)

“Sure,” Miller snorts, sounding distinctly disgruntled. “Clarke on the same page?”

He can feel his stomach flip at the thought of it, pressure clenching his throat and making it hard to breathe. “Yeah,” he forces out, running a palm over his face in a valiant effort to calm down. “We stay in the same room, you know. Olympic accommodations are nice, but not _that_ nice.”

“And here I thought they put you guys up in the Ritz.”

“I’d have invited you over if they have,” he points out, grabbing at his duffel before ducking out of the door. He’s lost track of time during his talk with Miller, and now he’s supposed to meet Clarke in five minutes for dinner. It probably means he’ll have to skip out on a shower, but he’d take it if it meant he could get nuggets. “Besides,” he clears his throat, taking the steps two at a time down to the dining hall, “I think she’d tell me if she’s going to take anyone up on it, anyway.”

He makes a absent sound of acknowledgement at that. “Right. So you can dissuade her from it, probably. That’s what platonic friends do, right?”

“I’ve never done that,” Bellamy retorts, sidestepping past the stream of people trickling out of the hall. It’s getting pretty late, if the rapidly darkening sky he glimpses through the window is any indication. He gives himself a minute to mourn the loss of the nuggets he’s been craving since lunch before turning his attention back to Miller. “I mean, yeah, I actively hated Finn, but I never _stopped_ her from being with him. There was Niylah, too, and Glass, and—”

“Which were all hookups. Kinda weird that she stopped dating seriously after Finn, huh?”

“That,” he huffs, coming to a standstill by the doorway, “has nothing to do with me and you know it.”

“Well, you would know better than I do.”

He scans the scattered groups of people before him, trying to spot Clarke’s familiar form. No sight of her yet, but that’s not surprising either. He knows her well enough to know that she runs on a different time than most people. “Whatever dude,” he snarks, dropping down onto the nearest empty seat he can find. “I have to go.”

“Tell Clarke I said hi,” Miller says, and Bellamy’s not sure how it’s possible that he can _sound_ smug over the phone, but he does.

“You’re an asshole,” he mutters, hanging up before he can get another word in the edgeways. Then, he settles back to wait, booting up his Kindle so at least he’ll have something to do over the next few minutes.

But it turns out that he doesn’t have to bother, because the girl a few seats down asks him about his shirt, which leads to a whole conversation about book to movie adaptations, and he’s honestly pretty engrossed in it up until he feels a warm weight over his shoulders, a peck to his cheek.

“Sorry,” Clarke chirps, squeezing at his shoulder before plopping down next to him, close enough that he can feel her hair tickling at his collarbone. “I got a little held up at the showers, earlier. Have you been waiting long?”

“Twenty minutes, which by your standards, is not _too_ bad, actually,” he teases, trying not to focus too much on the fact that she just kissed his cheek. _Casually._ Is that something they’re doing, now? Is this supposed to be their new normal? Because he’s about eighty percent sure he won’t survive it. “Anyway,” he says, forcing himself back into focus, “Clarke, this is Bree. Bree, as I mentioned, Clarke. We were just talking about—”

“Thanks for keeping him company,” Clarke cuts in, shooting her a uncharacteristically bright smile. For a split second, it almost looks _unfriendly,_ like she’s baring her teeth. “I keep him waiting way too much, and he always gets bored within the first five seconds, you know?”

It’s a effort to keep his bewilderment from showing at that. Bree doesn’t say anything in response, just holds eye contact with Clarke, as if they’re having a silent conversation all on their own. He opens his mouth to say something, _anything,_ really— but Bree’s already getting to her feet, muttering some excuse before walking away.

He swivels over to stare; at the hard, unrelenting line of her mouth, her crossed arms. “What the hell was that?”

“What the hell was what?” she asks, shrugging. Her tone is light, _casual_ , even— but he catches the way her gaze drops to her lap, the hint of guilt flickering over her features. “She seems nice. Oh, wait. Have you eaten yet?”

“Have I—” he stops, the rest of the sentence trailing off into a strangled noise. “ _Clarke_ , c’mon. You can’t expect me to pretend that anything about that interaction was normal, right?”

“I don’t see why not,” she snaps, getting to her feet. “It’s just talking, right? No big deal?”

There’s no hiding the anger in her voice at that, which just confuses him more. “Wait, what are you trying to get at, here?” he says, lurching after her instinctively when she arcs away, throwing her hands up. “No seriously, what the _fuck_ is happening?”

“Nothing,” she declares, pressing a hand over her eyelids. It’s one of her little tics, something she does when she’s seconds away from crying, or worse. The sight of it sends a fresh surge of concern and guilt rushing through him, mingling and turning sour in his stomach. “It’s just— forget it, okay? I’m sorry for snapping.”

She turns away before he can say anything else, edging past him to jab at the elevator button. It arrives with a cheery chirp, snapping him out of his reverie, and he makes sure to dart in after her before she closes the doors on him.

“No way, princess,” he growls, hitting at the button to their floor before she can. “You’re not running away from this. We’re not sweeping _shit_ under a rug, especially not right before the biggest competition of our lives.”

The noise she makes somehow manages to be disgruntled and amused at the same time. “God,” she mutters, shaking her head. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“Oh I’m sorry, how am _I_ the drama queen in the situation when you _literally_ sent someone running with a look?”

She marches out without dignifying that with a response, barreling down the corridor at a breakneck pace that leaves him breathless by the time he catches up, barely managing to slip through the door behind her. (He wouldn’t put it past her to lock him out, at this point.)

“You know what?” she says, once they’re back in the relative quiet of their room. “If it means so much to you, I’ll go talk to her tomorrow, okay?” She gives a small laugh, rubbing at her face. “I’ll apologize, and talk you up, and—”

“You think I care about that?” he cuts in, incredulous and pissed and strangely _stung_ by the revelation. “Clarke. This isn’t about Bree, okay? She could hate me and I wouldn’t blink twice. I’m just— I’m just trying to understand why you did what you did. I care about _you._ Not anyone else.”

That stuns her into a moment of silence, at least; her lips parting soundlessly for a minute before she seems to come back to herself. “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” he echoes, arching a brow over at her. “What’s going on, Clarke? Were you just, I don’t know, worried that I was going to lose my focus? That I’d be too busy talking up some girl—”

“I wasn’t worried,” she interrupts, biting at her lip. The apprehension on her face is evident, as are her nerves, and when she speaks again, it’s so soft that he has to strain to hear it. “I wasn’t worried,” Clarke repeats, releasing a shaky breath. “Because I was jealous.”

It’s just about the last thing he’s expecting her to say, the carefully constructed response in his head crumbling away in a matter of _seconds_ , leaving him reeling, because Clarke’s _jealous,_ and she’s jealous, because—

“Jealous,” he croaks out, his thoughts scrambling to reorder themselves into something that makes sense. “Of _Bree_?”

“Of anyone who gets to be with you,” she says quietly, her voice growing smaller with each word. “I just— I couldn’t help it. It was so _easy_ for her, you know? And I thought I had it under control, that I could just push my feelings away as long as we were friends, but then the last few days happened and I just thought— I hoped—”

(It’s a surreal moment, from everything Clarke’s saying to the sheen of tears in her eyes to the way his hands are trembling at his sides, because if this is _real_ , then it means that the girl he loves is in love with him, too.

If it’s real, it means that Clarke Griffin loves _him_. That she has been in love with him the same way he loves her, all these years.)

He’s crossing the room before he knows it, taking her face in his hands and _kissing_ her, just like how he’s wanted to for the longest time now.

She gives a little gasp against his mouth, recovering just as quickly to kiss him back; her hands scrambling at his back to pull him closer and her mouth sweet on his, a laugh bubbling up when he rains kisses against her jaw, the side of her nose, wherever he can reach.

“I was hoping, too,” he rasps out, nosing at her cheek. She pulls him back in before he can say anything else, kissing and _kissing_ him, and it’s his turn to laugh now, barely managing the words with her hands in his hair, her body pressed against his. “Jesus,” he groans, closing his eyes. “You know the last time you kissed me, I held on to it for like, four years, right?”

He senses her smile more than anything, the touch of her fingers to his cheek gentle. “You? Hey, try having that for your _first_ kiss,” she murmurs ruefully, shaking her head. “Nothing measured up after, you know.”

The warmth that blooms in his chest is staggering, his smile matching it instinctively and making their teeth bump. “I mean, I don’t think _Finn_ can be a fair comparison. If you’d dated Niylah, instead, well, maybe—”

She kisses him again before he can finish that sentence, all heat and intensity, her leg sliding over his until he gets the message and rests a hand against the small of her back, holding her steady as she jumps up into his arms.

“You talk too much,” she says, nipping at his jaw mischievously, following that with a roll of hips against his in a way that nearly makes his eyes roll to the back of his head. “C’mon, Bell. Keep up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, hiding a smile in her hair at the squeal she makes when he drops her onto the bed, her legs still around his waist and holding him close. Carefully, he leans forward, pressing a lingering kiss against her temple.

Her sharp intake of breath is music to his ears, as is the way she shivers when he tucks a lock of hair behind her ear; affectionate and fond and _loving_ , beyond anything.

“Hey,” she breathes, nudging at his palm with her cheek. “Bell.”

He smiles down at her, and it’s possible that he’s never been happier than in this moment, looking down at the girl he loves, knowing that she feels the same. “What?”

“If the kiss was bad enough,” she says conversationally, a grin unfurling on her face as her fingers curl around the band of his sweatpants, inching them down with every word, “I think this might actually ruin you.”

He bites back a groan, then, pressing her back into the bed as she laughs against his neck, the sound bright and lilting and _Clarke_ , above all else. “You already do,” he tells her, sliding down the length of her body to show her exactly how.

+

(“In case that wasn’t clear,” she says, after everything’s been said and done, her fingers tracing lazy patterns along the dip of his hip bones, the curve of his stomach, “I love you.”

He closes his eyes, tightening his grip around her, the warmth and weight of her by his side familiar and new, all at once. Like the first time they went back on the ice together, skates falling back into a slow, easy tandem, fingers linking together— different and yet exactly the same as how it always has been; satellites circling the same path home.

“Yeah,” he says, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to her lips. “I think we’re on the same page for this, too.”)

+

 **Figure Skate Daily** @figureskatedaily 1h ago

NEWS | The scores are in, and it’s official: Blake and Griffin have just earned #gold for USA in ice dance! Congrats go out to the winning couple @blakebell @cgriff #WinterOlympics #bellarke

 **@everight:** DAMN RIGHT

 **@elkeen:** omg DID YOU SEE THAT KISS WHEN THE RESULTS WERE OUT JFC THEY HAVE TO BE TOGETHER NO OTHER EXPLANATION

 **@invisiblenoise:** @elkeen ffs u dumbass they’re platonic

 **@jjordan:** @elkeen i’m the number one source of all things bellamy and clarke and i can assure u that ur wrong

_@blakebell retweeted this tweet._

**Author's Note:**

> Wish virtuemoir still didn't ruin my life periodically but here we are? Also credit to sara (teamhodgins on twitter) for doing a Virtuemoir video to Perfect by Ed Sheeran which INCIDENTALLY inspired the title for this fic. And this fic, in general, lmao


End file.
